


As Many As The Stars In The Sky

by deceptivemirror



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Case Fic, Gen, Multi, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1853758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deceptivemirror/pseuds/deceptivemirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean were working together seamlessly after having managed to send the Leviathans packing. One night, after being lured to Arizona by people disappearing and reappearing mere seconds later, a strange man who looked almost identical to Dean decided to appear. The next morning, it became obvious that not only did Dean's lookalike NOT choose to appear, but neither Sam nor Dean have a choice in where they are sent either. Meeting themselves as sisters, and as they might have been had the angels never gotten involved, the commonalities that link the siblings across the universes themselves started within their heads, with the dreams of fire and screams that neither of them discussed. The Winchesters will have to determine why the universes are throwing them around like rag-dolls quickly, because if not, the entire fabric of reality could rip itself asunder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Several months later, Sam still couldn’t manage to remember what he had done that had saved Dean and Castiel from being subsumed by Dick Roman’s remains. He remembered screaming. Screaming was clear, and it hadn’t been the least bit girly, no matter what Dean might have tried to tell him right after the fact. Like Dean could have hidden the way his hands and voice were shaking, and how he hadn’t managed to let go of Castiel’s coat-sleeve. Sam scoffed at the thought, even as he ran his hands through his hair and tried to quiet his ragged breathing. The sheet and blankets on the bed pooled in his lap, exposing his bare skin to the air, and despite their lightness, Sam was still covered in sweat.

Nightmares. Nightmares _again._ Horrifying memories of the Cage, combined with seeing Dean dying in front of him in any number of permutations, and the all-too-real and still all-too-close fact that Dean had nearly gone to wherever all the bad little Leviathans went when they died made for an insomniac’s special that Sam probably wasn’t going to get over any time soon. That wasn't even counting the _screaming_ he kept hearing in the dreams. He had the feeling Dean knew; the concerned looks he was getting were less and less subtle by the day. Dean, however, didn’t ask. Sam knew that he understood what Sam was going through on some level; it wasn’t as though Dean didn’t have nightmares of his own. Sam was wondering how long this could go on before Dean broke down and actually _asked_ him about them.

Castiel was taking up some of their daytime hours; he was still recovering from the shit he had pulled with Sam’s head. Sam would be lying if he said he didn’t think it was poetic justice that Cas was suffering for what he had done to Sam by experiencing what he had put Sam through, but it didn’t mean he entirely enjoyed it.

_Entirely._

Sam was a Winchester, after all; vindictiveness was practically their family’s battle cry.

At times like this, where Sam woke up in whatever motel room they were in for the night trying to get himself back under control, he almost wished he was back in the nuthouse. He didn’t remember much from his time there that he could definitely say was reality, but the meds there had been something else. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was in the damn _nuthouse,_ he might have almost enjoyed the first unbroken sleep he had had since before he had learned the monsters were real. Whenever he woke up from a nightmare these days, he would watch Dean sleep beside him, comforted by the fact that, when he was really soundly asleep, Dean slept like a little kid. 

Sam couldn’t help but smile briefly at the sight Dean made over on his bed. Next to the window (as he always insisted upon), Dean was sprawled partly on top of the covers and partly under them, one leg spread out on the bed while the other lay as straight as it got (since, after all, Dean’s legs were never completely straight). His grey boxers, nearly threadbare in the moonlight coming in through the filmy curtains, were rucked up a bit on the bent leg, nearly exposing things Sam couldn’t deal with seeing on less than four hours of sleep. Dean had also gone to bed without a shirt, since this tiny town in bumfuck Texas (Sam couldn’t quite remember the name, but he thought it was Benbrook) was so warm that the A/C unit was barely making the room bearable, if they both forgot their modesty. Both of Dean’s arms were above his head, and his face was tucked against the left one, facing Sam. His mouth was slightly open and Sam could hear him breathing out what was almost, but not quite, a snore.

Sam felt a bit calmer, though he _did_ wonder what it said about him that he could only calm down after he watched his brother sleep, like a creeper or one of his brother’s former groupies. Seeing the sun just starting to rise, he didn’t think going back to sleep was a good idea, particularly when Dean was going to want to get out of this town as quickly as possible. They’d taken out a chupacabra late last night (and possibly into the morning), and considering they weren’t terribly far from the Mexican border and people who probably still believed that chupacabra actually existed, it would be better to get out of town before somebody saw the smoldering carcass of it and the herd of cows it had slaughtered, and decided to investigate.

Sighing, Sam levered himself out of bed and glanced at the clock, being careful not to wake Dean. He kept himself from groaning when he saw the stark red 5:57 glowing in the relative darkness of the room, but only with a massive effort. It was far too early to be awake on a Saturday morning, even for people with schedules as irregular as theirs.

He figured a shower would wake him up enough to get through the day, and he could sleep in the car. For once, he was happy about Dean's anal-retentiveness about who drove the Impala.

Unlike most mornings, Sam was actually happy that the water stayed cold for a while before getting warm. He had experience in dealing with fear-sweat, and nothing but cold water got the slimy feel of it off his skin. Once he could smell skin instead of sour sweat, he turned the water a bit warmer and mechanically washed himself down with soap and water, only giving his hair a bit of the normal attention it commanded. There wasn't a point in giving himself a scalp massage when he was this tired; his hair wouldn't be easily controllable until he got some decent sleep.

He shut the water off and shoved aside the shower curtain to grab a motel towel. It was actually somewhat fluffy, which was a nice change, and he rubbed himself until he was just damp, luxuriating a little in the softness. It was rare they came across motels where the towels didn't sandpaper them raw.

Sam supposed the rough towels had a positive side as well; he didn't have as much of a problem with dry skin patches as he did when the towels were soft, but that wasn't something he ever planned on letting Dean know. He had a hard enough time sneaking his moisturizer past Dean as it was without sarcastic commentary about his “girly tendencies.”

He wrapped the towel around his waist and secured it by tucking the free end under itself a few times all around his waist, like a baggy belt. He had seen some competitive swimmer do that at a pool once, and thought it was a way better option than just tucking the loose part into the wrapped part and hoping it didn't come loose.

He still remembered the scream Dean had let out when Sam’s towel had decided to drop at an inopportune moment. To this day, Sam still had no idea how his brother's ordinarily low, husky voice could get to that high a register.

Sam combed his hair and, not without feeling a sense of irony, reached for the motel's built-in hairdryer and switched it on, letting it dry his hair out until it would stay where it was. He didn't use it too long, since the tepid shower hadn't done much to cool him down, but he didn't want to walk around with wet hair either. He snorted to himself at considering a hairdryer in this weather as the lesser of two evils.

He surveyed himself in the mirror, nodded once in approval, and exited the bathroom. Sam noticed that Dean was either still asleep or just enjoying a doze, so Sam felt no compunctions about whipping the towel off, putting it on the bed, and digging into his bag for clothes. If Dean got an eyeful of Sam's bare ass, that was officially Dean's fault.

He pulled out grey threadbare boxers (he sometimes hated the fact that he and Dean shared packs when finances got low), jeans, and a grey tank top, and threw them on the bed next to the towel, figuring that it was going to be too damn hot to put a flannel on, except later at night. The Impala's air conditioning did a great job of keeping them comfortable, but in this weather, one less layer was one less sweat-trap against his already uncomfortable body. He also didn't need Dean bitching about his stench.

Sam also wondered where the hell Dean picked up some of his language, but that was probably beside the point. He didn't normally go out without at least two layers on, but for this weather, he'd make an exception.

Sam sighed as he pulled the boxers and jeans on over his damp skin, feeling them catch a bit. The humidity in Texas wasn't helping anything they had stay dry. Due to an unspoken agreement, neither of them were stepping foot into another laundromat until they left this place, because the one time they had tried, an hour in the dryer still hadn't managed to get their clothes to an acceptable level of dryness.

Ultimately, the only reason either of them even had dry underwear at this point was because of open windows and freeway driving. Sam fervently hoped that particular stunt hadn't gotten them photographed and onto the Internet. They had a hard enough time staying incognito as it was.

An unhappy grunt signaled to him that Dean had finally joined the land of the marginally awake, though he didn't sound any happier about it than Sam was.

“Idiot,” Dean mumbled into his bicep. Sam had learned over the years that, unless they were awoken by some threat, Dean was usually completely nonsensical in the morning. “Hairdryer.”

Sam snorted softly to himself, knowing Dean wasn't awake enough to hear it.

“Better that than smelling my wet hair all day,” Sam said, trying to sound cheery like a (Sam shuddered slightly) morning person. “Up and at 'em, Dean. We need to get out of Texas before we get the accent!”

Dean made a noise that sounded like the bastard child of a moan and a squeal, and snuggled further into the bed. A second later, he threw them off with a grunt and sat up, blinking blearily at Sam. “Hot,” he muttered bitterly.

“Yeah, it is,” Sam said, picking up the towel. He swung it in the air toward Dean and pointed to the bathroom. “Bathroom's got cold water, y'know. If you hurry, you might get some of it before the sun decides to make both taps hot.”

Sam remembered vividly how shocked and furious he had been during a trip to Arizona years ago, when they had had to track down a Cucuy-analogue and Sam had ended up getting its guts all over him. All he had wanted at the time was a cold shower after facing the heat of what the locals had assured him was an unseasonably hot summer. Needless to say, he had ended up even more overheated than he had been before the shower. The power of the sun in Arizona, he had learned then, was something to be respected and feared.

Arizona had at least one advantage over Texas; he got _dry_ there.

Sam figured it was just as well that he was resigned to Arizona in general, since they were heading out toward Tombstone to investigate some strange disappearances they had read about while on break from hunting the chupacabra. The disappearances had the hallmark of the supernatural all over them; people apparently disappeared in broad daylight in front of disbelieving passersby, only to reappear seconds later looking startled. In the week that Sam and Dean had been in Texas (Sam wished his brain-fog would let him remember where they were right now), the newspaper had featured no less than five separate articles in the national news section about the phenomena.

Sam sighed a bit, but couldn’t really dredge up the excitement an unknown case like this usually brought. The only thought in his head was that the sooner they started interviewing people and getting to the bottom of things, the sooner they could go somewhere that had more tolerable weather.

Sam picked up his shirt and flapped it around, trying to get some air circulation going. He also hoped it had the side effect of drying up the water still beading on his chest.

“Mmmmf,” Dean muttered, still not moving from his prone position. “Stop w'the noise. M'wake.”

“Yes, you're doing such a great impression of it right now,” Sam retorted, trying not to coo at how weirdly _cute_ Dean looked when he was barely awake. “Can you please get up and dressed before the heat sets in?”

Predictably, Dean didn't move.

Sam figured he would have to resort to greater measures to create impetus. Fortunately, he had the truth on his side. He did his best to keep the smirk out of his voice as he (casually) said; “Dean, if you wait much longer, the car's going to overheat before we get out of Texas.”

There was a pause, then a sudden flurry of nearly-naked Dean barreled past Sam on the way to the bathroom, leaving a faint but welcome breeze in his wake. The breeze didn't last long enough to really do Sam any good, but he still smiled a bit when he heard the shower turn on, the curtain jangle like it was being ripped off the pole, and the distinctive noises of Dean cursing and scrubbing at the same time.

Sam looked at the glowing red clock, noting the time he heard the shower turn on was about 6:20 am, and peacefully continued putting what few items weren't in the bathroom back into his duffle. He piled Dean's non-toiletry items near his bag, mostly because Dean had a particular way of folding things that somehow made them wrinkle-free, and would get really mad if Sam tried to be helpful beyond compilation of belongings.

Sam shook his head over the stuff sitting on Dean's rumpled bed. He had never mastered the trick of wrinkle-free folding, but he bet that no one rolled shirts and pants into space-saving rolls better than he did.

The red glowing numbers read 6:30 when Dean stumbled out of the bathroom, naked except for the one dry towel wrapped loosely around his waist. Even that cover was whisked away when Dean scrubbed furiously over his chest and arms as he stalked toward his bag and the clothes lying next to it. Sam noted with envy that Dean had somehow managed to completely dry off in the time between the bathroom and his bed.

Dean saw him looking and smirked. “I used colder water.” Pause. “I also actually _used_ the towel before I got out of the bathroom.”

Sam wrinkled his nose as Dean began drying between his legs right in front of him. “Dude, at least I did most of that _before_ you were awake!”

“Who said I was sleeping?” Dean shot back playfully, tossing the used towel onto the bed before selecting a pair of green boxers.

Sam snorted with amusement. If there was a slight bit of horror in the sound at the idea of Dean watching him dry off and get dressed, he wasn't going to be the one to tell Dean. “Didn't know you were that into me, Dean.” Sam even tried batting his eyelashes, figuring it would look more like he was having a light-induced seizure than an actual attempt at flirtation. The look he got from Dean told him he was right in assuming it was the former.

Dean shook his head, muttered, “gross,” and kept dressing. Jeans, plain white socks with holes in the pinkie part (Dean hated clipping his pinkie toes), and a soft, nearly threadbare t-shirt went on over Dean's body. He also sat, grabbed his boots, and pulled them on, lacing the shoes and humming “Heat of the Moment” until Sam, with a shudder he couldn't entirely repress, threw the pair of socks he'd been wearing yesterday at him. By some stroke of luck, they hit Dean directly in the mouth, and the next few minutes were spent with Dean spitting, wiping his mouth, and throwing the pair of boxers he'd been wearing yesterday at Sam's head.

Sam decided he would deny, until his dying day, that he nearly screamed as he batted the used underwear off his head with as little skin contact as he could manage.

Sam was pleased to see Dean looking so well-rested, even as he envied him that state. He hoped he could manage to sleep in the car as they drove, but didn’t have high hopes. The Impala was one of the few places he could manage to sleep a bit without difficulty, and he could definitely use the rest.

His stomach rumbled, and Sam put a hand over it. He'd sleep after breakfast.

Breakfast was some kind of Tex-Mex burrito with green chiles, eggs, potatoes, and cheese. It wasn't something Sam would ever think about eating early in the morning, but he decided he liked it better than the idea of facing a McDonald's Egg Mcmuffin before seven o'clock in the morning.

Sam rolled his eyes at himself. Personally, he was of the opinion that it was _always_ going to be too early to eat at McDonald's, but trying to tell Dean about his aversion to the fast-food chain would be like pretending the Impala was a clown car. Sam shuddered at the thought, and not only because of the clown portion of the idea.

They were eating in the car, since, predictably enough, Dean couldn't wait to get out on the road once Sam had finally managed to get him out of bed. Sam still didn't know how Dean had found out about the hole-in-the-wall place that served burritos this damn good, but decided that he didn't care enough to ask any further. With some luck, neither he nor Dean would set tire or foot back in this area of the country again until the weather reached a reasonable temperature and humidity.

Sam suspected that would be _never,_ but he knew better than to rule such a possibility out.

They had slipped out of town onto the I-20 West and were making good time at this hour. Saturdays were typically good travel days for Sam and Dean, except on the working holidays that gave nine-to-five people a three-day weekend, but luckily this was not one of those times. As easily as anyone could have wanted, Dean managed to accelerate to the speed limit, then slightly beyond it, until they were smoothly passing people and spending more time in the left lane than in the right.

Dean hadn't put any music on. Sam was secretly grateful, since Dean’s typical method of getting Sam to sleep featured soft-rock. Sam hadn’t yet found the courage to tell Dean he only fell asleep quickly to it because he wanted to _escape_ it. 

The burrito had been consumed, the wrappers were in the trash bag Sam had insisted on keeping in the car, and, with the windows letting in the breeze, Sam finally felt comfortable enough to doze off, his head cushioned against the window panel with his flannel overshirt.

He woke up when Dean was pulling into a rest stop, brought back to consciousness by the car slowing down. The car stopping was better than an alarm clock; the moment the car started to decelerate, Sam would start to wake up. Long hours of his childhood spent traveling in the Impala had attuned him to the way the road felt when things were going as smoothly as could be expected. Slowing down in a gradual way meant a gradual return to consciousness without grogginess. Sudden brake-slams rocketed Sam back to the land of the living without an period between sleep and wakefulness. He always paid for that instant wake-up later, but he would be fully aware if he needed to be.

Sam was glad for the stop; sometime during his nap, his bladder had decided it was full and needed emptying, so after stretching his legs, he tottered his way to the bathroom to attend to his needs. Washing his hands, he gloried in the feel of cold water on his skin, and even patted some of it onto his face and neck. His watch said it was a little after noon (or whenever it actually was; Sam never figured out the timezone until he was stopped for the night), and he was amazed at how much cooler the air felt here when compared to where they had spent the night. A few degrees and somewhat less humidity, Sam mused, really did seem to make a difference.

They ate lunch at a picnic bench in the rest stop; another of those burritos from the place they had left (Sam _thought_ it was Benbrook, but he really had no clear memory of it) that Dean had prudently stored in their cooler before they set out. They washed them down with bottles of water, and Sam already felt more alert than he had when the nightmare had woken him that morning.

“How close are we now?” He asked Dean, sipping from his water bottle and trying not to moan at how good the cold water felt when he swallowed.

Dean poked the remnants of his burrito and popped a stray bit of potato into his mouth. “Maybe about eight hours, or six if the road stays clear,” Dean said thoughtfully. He frowned, and Sam nodded a little, recognizing the look. “Probably closer to six if we just switch and don't stop all that often.”

“You bought out the burrito place,” Sam pointed out, “and the food's pretty damn good. Do we really _have_ to stop, barring bathroom breaks?”

“Nope,” Dean replied, sighing a little. “It's not like the case is really _going_ anywhere--”

“--but we're also the only ones within a two-state area who can cover this,” Sam finished for him, also sighing a little. “Plus, it's also non-fatal accidents thus far, so the chances of it becoming something else--”

“--get higher every day a hunter's not investigating,” Dean jumped in. He balled the burrito wrapper up and leaned forward onto his forearms. “I'd rather not break this into two trips, but right now, I'm a bit tired. Think you could spell me for a bit?”

Sam winced a little at Dean's unintentional witch pun, but nodded. “I've been sleeping up until now,” he said brightly, and it was true; the nap _had_ helped him reach alertness. “You could maybe do the same?”

Dean nodded. “You know how I get after I eat,” he replied, scratching his neck with an absent-looking gesture. “Unless there's caffeine, I get tired real fast afterwards.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “and the more caffeine you have, the more often we have to stop.” He paused, then chuckled and grinned. “We do at least have toilet paper in the car.”

“Yeah, but I draw the line on keeping pee-bottles again,” Dean said firmly. “I don't want to _think_ about what happened the last time we had those.”

Sam didn't want to either, but the words sparked the horrible memory. The case hadn't been a hard one, but they'd been driving down a stretch of road in northern California that hadn't had a rest area visible from the road, or even a respectable-looking gas station, for miles on end. Sam had remembered seeing a sign for Winchester Road and had laughingly pointed it out to Dean; that had been the one good spot in the memory. However, three or four hours in a car without a bathroom break during a hot day in April had taken its toll on their bladders, so without thinking much about the logistics, and spurred on by the need to get through Oregon into Washington, they had each peed in empty water bottles without stopping.

They hadn't, however, planned for the sudden stop due to construction in the mountains. Sam and Dean had come out of the hard brake just fine. The full bottles...hadn't.

The next several hundred miles (until Dean could reach a respectable detailer he knew in Portland who could give him a deal) had been filled with cursing and open windows, even when it had started raining buckets, because anything at that point had been preferable to enduring the _smell._

Sam shook his head briskly to get rid of the putrid nostalgia and got up. “One more stop in the bathroom for me before we get going again,” he said. “You better do the same.”

Dean just nodded and joined him. They emptied their bladders one last time before taking a slow walk back to the Impala. Dean tossed Sam the keys before they got in, and Sam slid behind the wheel with a sigh, adjusting the mirrors to his preferences with Dean's help. Sometimes he wished they had a more modern car; it'd let him adjust the passenger-side mirror without having to lean over and do it himself, or have someone else do it.

Having said that, few modern cars had the legroom men of his and Dean's sizes required to be comfortable, so he didn't mind the trade-off quite as much as he could have.

Once everything was situated to Sam's liking, he turned the radio on low and put in a mix-tape of Dean's favorites. Unlike Sam, Dean slept better in the car when there was a bit more background noise, so Sam was willing to humor him. Sam turned the car on and reveled in the low purr before he backed up and headed back to the freeway.

Dean had the soldier's mentality Sam had seen in their dad years ago; when there was an opportunity to sleep, he _slept._ Sam wished he had the ability to just sleep whenever he wanted, but he'd never mastered the brain shut-down it seemed to require. Dad had been able to do it, and Dean could do it, but Sam usually spent his downtime in the car reading or researching, since he couldn't just drop off when he wanted.

The current sleep-deprivation Sam was experiencing was going a long way to _giving_ him that talent, but now, because of the dreams, he wasn't sure if he wanted it. Go figure.

Sam sighed as Dean started to snore lightly, but did his best to tune it out and concentrate on driving. True to form, some traffic was on the road, but he was easily able to avoid getting stuck behind the slower drivers.

He settled into the groove of driving and felt a state of hyper-focus come on, giving him better awareness and reflexes. While he was at this level of alertness, he wouldn't tire as fast and could drive for hours without needing to have Dean replace him. Breaks, unfortunately, were still required, but it also meant that he could (and had, several times) driven the entire day until they were at their destination.

Sam would then crash and sleep almost immediately afterward, but it was useful for long hauls like this, when they needed to be somewhere in a relative hurry. Dean did something similar, he knew, but unlike him, Dean never seemed to get tired while he drove.

Maybe that was due to all the naps Dean got that Sam didn't, but Sam wasn't sure. If it was due to that, Sam was definitely jealous.

“Well, we're here,” Sam said unnecessarily, waving to the welcome sign of the town. “Should we find a campground?”

That was something neither of them were happy about, but after Dean had had his own nap (which featured some weird noises and grimacing, though Sam was pretty sure it wasn’t because Dean was dreaming something sleazy), they had discussed the logistics of their stay while Sam kept driving. The state of their finances wasn't low, but Tombstone was a tourist attraction in Arizona and wouldn't be cheap. Since the weather wasn't as terrible during this time of year as it _would_ be in a few months, they had eventually decided to rent a campsite for themselves and rough it for a few days. It wouldn't hurt either of them and it'd refresh their admittedly rusty skills at surviving in the outdoors.

Under normal circumstances, Sam loved camping. Even now, he was fairly excited about the idea of the campfire, peace and quiet, and not having to deal with shoddy accommodations or shady neighbors. Going into town for the other basic necessities was going to be a pain, but they could cook out here too, if need be. It was also nice to be reminded of the good times they'd had before Dad had really kicked into overdrive with the training. While a lot of Sam's memories of his dad weren't the most pleasant, the few times they had gone camping for the sake of it, rather than for a hunt, were some of the best he had, and he treasured them.

Of course, having to prepare a campsite for protection against the supernatural when sleeping in the open wasn't the simplest operation, but Sam and Dean had managed to perfect the process over the years. Sam chuckled and wondered whether the salt circles he and Dean installed around their sites were the reason why he kept seeing articles about the internet sensation of the “fairy circles” seen in some states. He knew other hunters did the same thing when their fake credit cards dried up, so that probably contributed to the urban myth.

They found a decent spot away from the _actual_ campsites so they could avoid having to pay (old hat by now) and parked the car. Sam went to the trunk and got out the shovel, a five-pound bag of salt, and the tent kit while Dean got the cooler and their blankets out of the backseat.

He brought the bucket and the tent stuff to Dean and got busy digging a shallow circular trench into the soil, with a silent apology to Nature. Once that was done, he poured some salt down into the trench and covered it back over with the soil. It had taken some experimentation and consultation with other hunters to determine what would be adequate protection out in the open, but, with the addition of some hex-bags around the campsite and some charms against “living” supernatural beings, they would be about as safe as any cheap motel room could keep them.

Granted, the cheap motel rooms hadn't really kept them safe at all, but the concept of a door always _seemed_ safer, even when it wasn't.

When Sam finished, he turned to Dean, who had swiftly set up the tent and unrolled their bedding, which still reeked faintly of smoke and dead leaves from the last time they had used it. He was in the process of sorting through the giant bag of hex-bags they had accumulated over the years, obviously attempting to determine which would be best for the next few nights.

Sam approved of what Dean was doing, but remembered one more step that would be crucial to their continued safety. He went back to the car and dug out a binder filled with plastic-covered pages. He removed two of the papers from the plastic and brought them to the tent, placed them between the two sets of bedding, and made sure a knife was unsheathed and ready for use.

The papers had anti-angel sigils drawn on them with bagged blood, just waiting for fresh blood to activate them. Castiel had actually been helpful in alerting them to the fact that _their_ blood didn't have to be used to draw the signs. Human blood was necessary, but except for the activation part, apparently none of it had to come from a fresh source. After that explanation, Sam had obtained an old-fashioned ink-fountain pen, some bagged blood from a blood bank that catered to tame vampires, and had gotten busy filling a binder with meticulously-drawn anti-angel sigils.

In addition to being portable, it was also _far_ less painful and didn't ruin the motel rooms they stayed in, which was great. Sam was _really_ tired of being chased out of town because they wouldn't pay for Haz-Mat cleanup.

Once he had finished getting all the protections set up and the latrine trench dug, Dean had set the cooler up against a nearby tree and started a fire-pit, making sure to dig deep enough into the dry soil to minimize the risk of the fire getting out of their control. They typically carried a quick-start log with them in the trunk, but Dean had managed to gather enough small tinder from the sparse greenery around them to give them a serviceable fire. It wasn't that cold yet, even with the sun down, and this far away from nearby cities, the sky above took Sam's breath away with its beauty. The air was clear enough to see all the constellations Dad had drilled into him as a kid. Sam smiled ruefully at the memory of training that, for once, had been disguised as fun. Looking at the stars together had been a thing for him and Dad before they had started butting heads.

He looked over at Dean and noticed that he was also staring in wonder at the tableau above. Sam hated to disturb him, but the tinder he'd gathered wouldn't necessarily be enough to cook their food for them, even if it would keep them warm until they went to sleep. “Hey, Dean,” he called softly.

“Yeah?” Dean's reply was equally soft.

“Do we have enough for tomorrow morning?” Sam didn't really want to send Dean into town right after they had arrived, but the idea of having to drive into town just to get something to eat for breakfast was daunting. They were already a few miles out of town, and even if they were good at fishing (they weren't), Sam already knew that Dean wasn't going to face fish first thing in the morning. It was better to go now.

Sam cursed himself for forgetting to have Dean stop and pick up supplies _before_ they reached their temporary camp, but there wasn't anything he could do about it now. Besides, he knew that Dean would be more rested than Sam was at this point in time due to the nap.

Dean sighed and got up from the fire-pit. “No, and we need some other supplies while we're out here that we wouldn't need at a motel,” he grumbled. “How did we not remember to stop for them?”

“I think we were more concerned with getting here,” Sam stated tiredly. “Could you go into town and get the stuff? It shouldn’t take too long.”

In answer, Dean got up, pulled the keys from his pocket, and jangled them noisily. “I should be back in less than an hour.”

“See you then,” Sam said as Dean walked away. “Be careful!”

“Always am, Sam,” Dean said with a casual wave. Moments later, the low rumble of the Impala broke the relative silence of the dry creek-bed they were utilizing, fading as Dean drove back into town.

Sam took a deep breath and enjoyed the rare chance for a bit of privacy, even though he didn't have anything to do that would require it. He and Dean had lived so long in each others' pockets that any rare time away from each other felt like a gift. He knew that Dean agreed with him even if he wouldn't say it.

He hoped the beauty and quiet of their surroundings would allow him a pleasant night's sleep tonight. The hope wasn't all that great, but anything beat the screaming he kept hearing. Sam hadn't said anything to Dean about it, but he had heard it while he had napped, and snippets of it had kept sounding in his head ( _“Help….barrier….”_ ) while they had been driving here.

Sam was wandering the campsite, making sure everything was set up, when something happened.

He couldn't understand what he was feeling, even while he was experiencing it. The world was wavering in and out of focus. Colors warped from the familiar into the nauseating, and his stomach churned in response. He felt too heavy and too light all at the same time, and the dizziness threatened to send him to his knees.

Sam didn’t know how long the confusing string of sensations went on, but they stopped as suddenly as they had come, and he was shocked that he had managed to remain upright. He turned around fast to make sure everything was still okay and stopped dead in his tracks.

Someone was standing where Dean had initially parked the Impala. Sam didn't know the guy, but he was about Dean's height, and had darker brown hair that looked a bit overgrown. He wore a zipped-up black leather biker jacket that looked well cared-for, and the jeans he wore were broken in and nearly see-through.

He looked up then, obviously having recovered from the same insane world-screw that had happened to Sam, and Sam actually took a step back. Considering the hair and the outfit, he wasn't prepared to see anyone familiar, so seeing Dean's face and eyes was a gut-wrenching shock.

"Dude," Sam breathed, almost afraid to speak in a normal tone of voice, "who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

The unfamiliarly familiar guy blinked at him and opened his mouth. "Your _brother?!_ " The guy said, his voice smoother than Dean's and nearly as jarring as his appearance. "Screw your _brother,_ man! What the hell have you done with my _sister?!_ "


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Dean couldn't help but feel like something weird was going to happen when he drove into town.

It wasn't often that he had his own flashes of foreshadowing; he wasn't Sam, and even Sam didn't get them anymore (or so he said; Dean sometimes wondered, considering how easily Sam avoided taking damage on their hunts). _Something_ had him nervous, and he just couldn't put a finger on it to save his life.

Dean sighed as he saw the scarce lights of Tombstone on the road ahead of him. Maybe it was because of his dreams. His mind wasn't exactly a wonderland of joy, naked women, and burgers, but he normally dreamed about his own experiences. He couldn't figure out why he'd been hearing screams in his sleep the past few days. He still hadn't decided whether or not he should bring it up to Sam. The freaky psychic crap belonged to _Sam,_ not Dean; maybe Sam could shed some light on it after Dean got the stuff from town, if Dean thought he’d be able to bring it up.

At this point, Dean was tired enough to forget the name of the store he stopped at, but it had ice, bottled water, food, and burnables for their fire-pit so they could cook breakfast (Dean figured they could get lunch and dinner in town, if they would be staying a while; he wasn't _that_ big a fan of outdoor cooking), and he figured he could find out later. He remembered seeing a laundromat on his way to the store, so they could at least get their clothes washed while they were here. Maybe they could even pick up and go to a real campsite so they could get a shower or two as well. Bathing in a nearby creek would be convenient, but they couldn't guarantee privacy, and Dean had had one too many encounters with angry ranchers and passersby to strip naked where someone could see it, _particularly_ when he wasn't sure of his welcome.

Sometimes he had to also be careful stripping in the presence of those who _did_ welcome it, but those were other situations entirely.

The sense of _wrongness_ intensified as he loaded his purchases into the Impala's back seat, and the urge to get back to Sam and see for himself that his little brother was safe had him peeling out of the parking lot faster than was probably appropriate for a Saturday night. He hoped inwardly that it didn't bring the cops down on them and their illegal campsite.

The small town's nightlife was thankfully non-existent, so Dean was able to drive at a somewhat unsafe speed back to the campsite, thankful that the stars were helping light the way. The moon was partially out, and at any other time Dean would marvel at how close and bright it was, but all he could think was how glad he was that it lit his way when the streetlamps stopped.

He had to slow down to negotiate the terrain near the creek where he and Sam had made camp, but once he slowed down, he saw that Sam had company. That was odd. They had chosen the site on purpose because it _wasn't_ easily accessible to people, so the fact that Sam had a visitor at all was freaking weird.

As he got closer, the other person standing near Sam became visible, and Dean nearly forgot that he was driving for a second, because he was staring at _himself._

The small fire they had going, combined with the moonlight and the Impala's headlights, allowed for a merciless spotlight on the familiar stranger, and he could see that the other guy (himself?) was wearing biker gear instead of casual leather, and he had darker hair. The guy was even wearing biker boots instead of sensible hiking boots.

Dean belatedly remembered to hit the brakes before he hit either his mysterious double or Sam, but didn't quite know what to think about the entire situation. Less than an hour and Sam had somehow managed to get them into trouble. He wondered if that was a record.

He stopped the car just in front of the two people and shut it off. The sudden loss of the headlights cast the whole area into a bizarre red-silver glow from the fire and the sky above. The dark highlights in Dean's double's hair gleamed in the strange light.

Dean took a deep breath, unbuckled his seat-belt, and got out of the car. “Okay, Sam,” he said finally, noting his double's eyes widening at the sight of him. “How did this devastatingly handsome guy get here and why's he glaring like that?”

His look-alike snorted, but Sam just sighed. “He's had all the tests, Dean,” he said. Dean already knew that. Sam wouldn't look that calm unless he'd made sure their guest was just another man.

Granted, a man who looked _almost exactly like Dean,_ but hey, perfection in weird situations had to be found somewhere.

“For God's sakes,” the look-alike grumbled, his voice another shock to Dean. His own voice was roughened from years of open windows, bad booze, and yelling, so hearing the man speak with a younger-sounding voice, before hunting and age started taking a toll on him, was a surprise.

“The last time something tried to put on my face, Sammy took care of it with a knife,” the man continued, sounding tired. “She doesn't fool easy.”

“Sammy?” Dean was confused. “Wait... _she?_ ”

“Yeah, that's just one of the many confusing parts to this evening,” Sam sighed. “Wherever this guy came from--”

“I have a _name,_ you know,” Dean's twin interrupted, but Sam, bless him, kept right on going like he hadn't noticed.

“--apparently he has a _sister_ named Samantha.” Pause, grimace. “After Mom's dad.”

Dean didn't quite know how to respond to that in anything other than his usual manner, so he just didn't bother trying. “Well, we already knew you were a giant girl. Figured it had to be true in _some_ way or another.”

The look Sam threw at him could have melted the Impala's tires, but Dean's look-alike just started laughing. Despite his exhaustion, and the very real fear and confusion he was feeling, Dean smiled too. At least the guy had a sense of humor about this.

Then again, if he was Dean, then shit like this had happened to him too.

The smile wiped off of Dean's face as fast as it appeared. “Well, if we're convinced this guy isn't going to try hurting us,” he said, jerking a thumb back toward the Impala, “then how about some help unloading the backseat? I practically bought out the store.”

“Ice too?” Sam asked, already moving toward Dean in a way-too-casual walk.

“Ice too,” Dean confirmed. “Yo, biker-dude. Wanna help too?”

“Biker-dude,” his look-alike scoffed. “At least I _have_ a bike and don't have to drive my sister's car.”

“Your _sister_ drives this car?” Dean asked incredulously. “And you're happy with a _bike?_ ”

“It's always been easier if we drive separately,” his look-alike said, sounding unconcerned. “Besides, when I get tired, there's an attachment that lets us tow my bike, and I can ride shotgun with her.”

“I can't imagine not driving this car,” Dean murmured as he took a five-pound bag of ice out of the back-seat, along with the towel he had beneath it that protected the upholstery.

“She needs it more than I do,” Biker-Dean replied calmly. “Besides, it'd be harder on her and her husband if I never left them alone.”

Husband.

_Right._

Clearly, they had a _lot_ to talk about.

If Dean didn't know better, he would swear that he was drunk.

He _knew_ he wasn't, which was one of the worst mind-fucks he could have imagined. It didn't matter if he drove the car or Sam drove; when they were _in_ the car, neither of them would touch alcohol with a ten-foot pole. Booze was for when they were stopped and not going anywhere for long periods of time, _not_ when they were going toward a case.

He wasn't drunk. He was, however, exhausted after a long day of traveling, even factoring in his extended nap, and he knew Sam wasn't in much better condition. It still didn't explain how weirdly easy it was to accept biker-him's explanations.

If Dean didn't know better, he'd swear up and down that this guy _was_ him. The problem with that idea was fairly simple; he _didn't_ know better. Even with that out of the way, he couldn't accept the fact that the biker-him was here, eating a hot dog off a stick and staring into the fire like it was going to answer all his questions.

It was like staring into a slightly warped mirror of himself. He just looked... _off_ He seemed younger somehow, and he didn't have that annoying limp Dean had been trying to minimize for the past several years. That alone told Dean a lot more than he thought Sam could even guess. The absence of that limp said that _this_ Dean (and Dean was probably never going to be able to wrap his head around that), if he really was a Dean at all (and how many others were out there, anyway?) had never been attacked by a hellhound bent on killing a little girl a few years ago, and therefore had never gotten a broken femur that had never healed quite right. It was something he did his best to keep from Sam; even though the injury had healed a long time ago, the damage had been done, and Dean just didn't heal up as fast or as well as he used to.

Dean gnawed on his own roasted hot dog as he contemplated the weirdly familiar face in front of him. Sam sat off to one side, supposedly to stretch his longer legs out, but Dean knew it was so he could examine the guy. That meant that, whatever Sam thought of the stranger, he was going to let Dean have the final say.

“So how the hell did you end up here, anyway?” Dean asked casually.

“Hell if I know,” the biker-him grumbled back. “I was in the motel room in Tucson with Sammy and her husband, Jess--”

Sam made a choking noise, but Dean didn't spare him a glance. He was surprised too.

“--then some really fricking weird whirling lights started flashing, and it was like getting stuck in Rick Astby's video and having an elephant sit on my chest at the same time,” the biker Dean finished, before glancing oddly in Sam's direction. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Sam got out, clearly struggling with his words. “No, you're just fine. Is that it?”

“Then I was in front of you,” biker-Dean confirmed, looking uncomfortable. “It's really weird to see you as a man, Sammy.”

“It's Sam,” Dean and Sam snapped at the same time, before looking at each other in surprise.

Biker-him raised his hands, still holding onto the stick with the roasted hot-dog on it. “Okay, fine,” he said. “Geez, you're worse than--”

He snapped his mouth shut and looked grim, and Dean had to look away. He had to; he couldn’t face _that_ face. He saw it too often in the mirror.

“I'm sure she's fine,” Sam said soothingly, always much better than Dean at facing things like his own feelings. “If she’d been caught up in it, she'd probably be here with us, right?”

“I guess so,” biker Dean said sulkily, almost as though he wanted to disagree.

It was really disturbing to see his own face and and be able to read it so easily. Dean really needed to work on his poker face if he was that much of an open book.

“Then she's fine,” Sam said firmly, as though that settled the matter. Dean hated it when he did that. Dean usually wanted to complain and worry at the matter until it bled or they had found a solution, but Sam liked to put things into folders and lock them into drawers. It was weird seeing someone else on the receiving end of that treatment for once.

A cool breeze blew through their clearing just then, whipping the fire's flames up briefly and illuminating the stranger's face further. Dean warily looked around. There hadn't been any wind until just that moment. Sourceless wind meant angels.

“I see. This is quite the situation.”

The monotone voice and re-statement of the obvious said it was Cas.

“Castiel?” Biker-him asked, sounding awestruck. “What are you doing here?”

“Attempting to determine why Dean Winchester's soul suddenly appeared to be in two distinct places at the same time,” Castiel said, looking as untroubled as ever. Apparently his recent self-inflicted insanity hadn’t really influenced his behavior with people as much as Dean would have personally liked.

Even though he was annoyed, Dean was grateful to Cas for managing to figure out what was going on faster than he or Sam could. Hell, he wasn't even sure what to ask, let alone where to start.

“So he really is me?” Dean asked, trying not to sound as faint as he suddenly felt.

“Barring different life experiences and other such influential stimuli, yes,” Castiel replied bemusedly. “The only question is _why_ he is here. Normally the fabric between the universes is sealed tightly--”

“Between the _what?_ ”

It must have been Sam and the biker-him's turn to bust out the synchronized shock. It didn't make the sound of two voices roaring in surprise any more pleasant to hear.

“The universes,” Castiel said. Thanks to extended experience in dealing with Cas, Dean could detect genuine confusion in his response, almost as though he couldn’t understand why this would shock _anyone._ Cas was naive that way sometimes. It didn't make dealing with him any less annoying, but it at least made it easier to know why he said the things he did.

“So, stop me if I'm wrong,” Dean said, holding a hand up to the other-him and to Sam, “but this guy's from _another universe._ ”

“Correct,” Cas said slowly, inclining his head a little. Dean took that as an invitation to continue.

“Another place where there's a him, and another Sam, and this Jess guy who's married to that female Sam.”

Castiel again moved his head. Dean should probably look into showing him how to do that more naturally someday. From this angle, it looked really awkward.

“But there are others.”

Another incline-nod-headtwitch thing. Dean really needed to teach the guy how to move more like a human.

“And this guy--” he gestured vaguely toward the other-him--”-is just from _one_ of them.”

“Indeed,” Castiel replied blankly.

Dean looked at Sam, who was looking at him with an equal amount of shock. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Cas just how many universes there were, but he was afraid of the possibility of getting an answer. Sighing, Dean moved toward the cooler.

“I need more alcohol before I can think about this properly,” he said to no one in particular. “Anyone want some before I try to drink it all?”

“You're not having more than one and you know it,” Sam said sternly, walking with him. “But I want one too.”

“Toss one here,” the other Dean said gamely. “I need booze just to _process_ this.”

Dean thought about telling the other-him what would happen when he tried to open a bottle that had been thrown through the air, then realized what was going on with an eerie chill.

The other-him was acting _exactly like him._

He couldn't figure out why he was so surprised. He did the same thing to Sam all the time. He would ask for Sam to throw him a beer, then just sit and hold it while he tried to figure out what to do or say. Later on, of course, he would _drink_ it (especially if it was some microbrewed stuff, though Dean did his best to hide his preferences from Sam), but never immediately, and definitely not as soon as it got tossed to him. Dean opened the cooler and held a beer bottle in his hand contemplatively before handing one to Sam, who had followed him over, then taking two for himself and the other-him. He walked over and handed the beer to the guy, who looked surprised.

It was still a trip to see his face making those expressions when he wasn't looking into a mirror.

He tapped his bottle gently against the other Dean's, then used his keyring bottle opener to get the top off. He offered it to the other guy, but he was using his own keychain device to get it open.

They were alike, all right.

The beer smelled hoppy and rich, like fresh-baked bread with the faint aroma of chocolate and spices. Sam _definitely_ had been the one to pick this beer out during their last hunt. Dean usually went with what was cheap and plentiful, depending on their finances, but Sam liked to live on the edge with his drink choices. Dean wasn't _complaining,_ of course, but if he happened to take his time breathing in air that smelled even more awesome than usual, he would be the only one to know.

Catching sight of his double's smirk, Dean revised his thought; he would be one of only _two_ people to know.

He let the chilled glass rest in his hands for a bit, sitting and absorbing what was going on. His body took that moment to start complaining about being tired even more loudly than it had when he had returned, but he tried to ignore it for now. His mind was fuzzy, but he did his best to work through that too. The fact that he had a guy who looked like a funhouse-mirror version of him was currently the _least_ of his concerns.

There were other universes. Dean thought he should be more shocked about that revelation than he actually was, but considering he'd died, been resurrected (several times), was on a first-name basis with several angels, demons and supernatural critters, and was currently living out of a bunker built by a bunch of long-dead people who’d researched the best ways to kill the supernatural _using_ the supernatural, this almost seemed run-of-the-mill. It wasn't quite ordinary enough to ignore, of course, and he didn't want to have to bill himself out as a twin (unless it would get him laid), so it was in their best interests to figure out how to get rid of this guy and send him back to his sister as soon as possible.

God. Sister. In this Dean's world, Sam was a girl, was married, and drove the Impala instead of him. That just seemed _wrong._

He glanced sneakily at Sam to see how he was taking it, only to get a view of Sam's throat convulsively swallowing the beer as if it were water. Weird; he’d have thought Sam would have handled this _better._

Dean took a drink, then another one for good measure. Okay, maybe he had better give Sam the benefit of the doubt. This beer was _fantastic._

He sighed and lowered the bottle again, trying not to notice the other-him performing the _exact same motion_ on his side of the fire. They really needed to figure out what the hell was going on. Aside from the pain-in-the-ass it would be to have to constantly introduce himself as a twin, he really didn't want to spend the rest of his life feeling like he was living in front of a mirror.

Finally, Dean had had enough. “So what now?” He asked Castiel, who had apparently been content to stand and watch them drink and process things.

“The rip in space appears to still be open,” Castiel said, sounding contemplative. “I suspect it will not close for some time.”

“So you mean I'm _stuck_ here?” The other Dean choked. Sympathy threatened to cut off Dean's own breathing, but he did his best to keep it inside.

“What about my sister? What about her husband?” The other-him couldn't seem to sit still. The beer bottle was constantly switching hands and his feet were shuffling on the ground, stirring up little puffs of dust.

“Situations like this have happened before,” Castiel assured him. “It is physically impossible for you to be trapped here, so fear not.”

Sam snorted then. “Straight out of the Bible, that quote,” he said sarcastically, then seemed to get himself together. “What's the time limit?”

“Most instances of cross-universe shifting resolve within a 24-hour period,” Castiel said promptly. “It has been said that God will re-situate the displaced people and animals if such a thing occurs.”

“So, I'll be back home soon?” The other Dean asked hopefully.

“Quite,” Castiel said, probably attempting to sound comforting. To Dean's ears, it sounded like he was gargling a bit more glass than usual. Judging from the expression on the other Dean's face, he probably thought the same thing.

“Good,” Dean said, taking another pull off his bottle. “Now that this is all settled, how about we all get some damn sleep?”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam said with a yawn. “We've been driving since really early.”

“Yeah, Jess had to drive us out of Tucson today,” other-Dean said, rubbing his face with one hand. “Sammy was having nightmares again.”

Sam's face abruptly turned pale, but from the way his lips were clamped shut, Dean knew from long and unfortunate experience that asking about it now would only get him an argument, so he just stood up and went to his bedroll. “Wanna sleep in the car, man?” He asked the other Dean.

“Better bedding than that last motel,” other-Dean replied. “See you guys in the morning, I guess.”

“Guess so,” Dean murmured.

“Good night,” Sam said, still with that odd expression on his face.

“Yeah, you too,” the other Dean replied with an awkward wave.

Even considering the long day and the weirdness at the end of it, Dean somehow still fell asleep faster than he normally did. Even the screaming he'd been hearing in his dreams didn't wake him up.

_Fire again. Dean had tried closing his eyes, but it didn’t seem to work. Everything here was see-through. Even his eyelids._

_“Barrier….”_

_The fire wasn’t hot. It pulsed against his skin like a living thing. Dean felt like he was naked._

_“Barrier….once…”_

_The screaming started again. It was incoherent and hopeless. Dean should have felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Dean should have had goosebumps. He should have been able to close his eyes. He couldn’t tell if they were open or closed._

_Dean couldn’t move._

“It just changed.”

Murmuring and quiet voices slowly pulled him out of the weird dream. The screaming started fading away. Good. Dean was pretty sure he could sleep more if the shrieking from his dreams would stop playing in his head for a while.

“--since Adam---and the pit.”

Soft sand shifting around, as well as dead leaves crinkling, helped draw Dean further out of unconsciousness, but the words more than anything were waking him up. Something about the way they fit together wasn't making sense to him, and he had the drowsy idea that he'd missed something fairly important just now.

“Cas--open tear---time?”

Sam's voice was soft in the morning, Dean, still in that content place between sleeping and alertness, thought to himself. Sam always knew the right tone of voice to soothe him back asleep or wake him up faster than a gunshot. Sam's words kept his eyes shut and his body relaxed.

“Don't know---hungry---wake him?”

Food. Food sounded good. Maybe he'd be able to find out what he missed if he ate something. He definitely had the feeling he was missing something.

With great reluctance, Dean opened his eyes.

As soon as he did, he immediately slammed them shut again, because holy _crap_ it was bright out.

The problem was, as soon as his eyes were open, he suddenly became aware of the state of his body. That warm sleepy feeling he had been enjoying suddenly translated to sweat-soaked discomfort. He had apparently been too deeply asleep to register the fact that the sun was overhead and merrily going about its business roasting the shit out of innocent campers like him.

He didn't know if he had made a sound or not, but the rustling and soft voices stopped. Dean felt like someone was staring, so he turned his head and met Sam's concerned gaze. He smiled briefly, then looked at his alternate-universe twin, and winced.

Some things just didn't get easier to think or accept, even when first waking up.

Dean grunted and rolled over, getting himself situated. Cas must have gone off to where all the good (and probably not-so-good) little angels went when their charges were sleeping, because Dean didn't see him anywhere in the campsite. His twin was sitting near the firepit gnawing on what looked like an energy bar, and Dean's stomach growled a bit. His stomach clearly had no taste if he was thinking the apricot Clif bar-type things Sam habitually got for himself were fit to eat.

Somehow, though, he didn't think ham and eggs were in the offing.

“What'd I miss?” He mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” the other Dean quipped, sounding _far_ too awake and perky for Dean's tastes. “Get your ass up and have something to eat.”

“It is way too early in the goddamn morning to be taking this kind of shit,” Dean complained, rolling his head around to get the kinks out. He definitely didn't sleep on the ground as well as he had when he was younger.

“Even if you're taking it from yourself?” Sam asked with that fake-innocent tone Dean _knew_ meant he was getting laughed at, since Sam only used it when he _wanted_ Dean to know.

“Shut up and toss me a chocolate one of those things,” he said, making grabby hands.

Not two seconds later, one sailed across the space and clocked him on the forehead. If it hadn't been _his_ head that had been hit, Dean might have complimented Sam on the throw, but as it was, Dean just gave Sam the middle finger instead. It didn't matter what time of day it was; Dean couldn't let that act of little brother-type defiance stand without some kind of response.

He glared for good measure as he ripped open the wrapper and gnawed off a hunk of chalky protein bar.

Sam, being the brat that he was, just rolled his eyes and shook his head. “See what I have to put up with?” He asked the other Dean.

“Hey, I wouldn't let my sister get away with that kind of shit either,” the guy said, and Dean was torn between hating the guy for being awake and chatty (and unfairly gorgeous), and wanting to clap him on the back in camaraderie. Clearly the guy knew how it was, because Sam sure as hell wouldn't get it.

“So how long have you guys been awake?” Dean mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate graininess. He figured Sam must have gotten the off-brand protein bars again.

“Just for an hour,” his twin answered. “We've been chatting and admiring the sunrise.”

“Yeah, you only missed it by a few minutes,” Sam added.

“I'm fine with missing it permanently,” Dean grumbled, swallowing down the mush in his mouth. He debated taking another bite, then decided against it for now. “Anything I should know?'

“Doesn't sound like your guys' lives and my life have that many differences,” the other Dean answered, sounding way too thoughtful for this hour of the morning. “Aside from Sam being a girl and, y'know, married.” Pause. “At least she married a good guy.”

“The guy proposed right before this Dean went to get his sister from school,” Sam said, taking up the narrative and sounding oddly happy about it. Dean heard an undercurrent of grief and sadness in the honest joy, and figured it had something to do with Jess. “That yellow-eyed bastard pinned him to the ceiling, but she managed to get him down before he was killed.”

“Still wanted to marry her, too,” Dean's twin said with a grin. “I gave him my permission, of course. Dad tried to run him off, but that didn't work too well.”

Dean nodded and took another bite of the bar, and it suddenly tasted a little better than it had before. “And everything else was the same?”

“Pretty much,” Sam answered. “I don't know how many changes _could_ happen, what with the different universes and things possibly being different.”

“I don't either,” the other Dean murmured, looking sad.

Dean understood his alternate universe-twin's pain all too well, but didn’t want to get mushy about it.

“Things are going to be what they were,” he said simply, but trying to be sincere as well. “I sure as hell don't plan on telling you that things are going to be better, because you're as much me as I am you, and you _know_ better.”

The other Dean nodded, suddenly looking tired. He raked his hands through his hair. Dean, not for the first time, noticed that it was both darker and longer than his. It somehow highlighted the fact that he looked like Dean more than it made them seem different.

“Do we even know if this tear thing is going to keep happening?” Biker Dean asked.

“Hell if I know, dude,” Dean answered. “You know, Sam?”

“No idea,” Sam sighed, opening a bottle of water and having a drink. He tossed one to Dean, and Dean was pleased to see he did it nicely this time. He didn't think getting brained by a water bottle was going to help the situation at all.

“Cas did come by while you slept and said that the strange shit around town had stopped,” Sam added after Dean had had a drink. “I guess the weird stuff is fixated on us now.”

“Small blessings,” the other Dean muttered. “After we drove so far, too.”

“Better us than the civilians, man,” Dean reminded him.

“It'd be better to know _why_ this shit's happening,” was the response from his double. “If nothing else, maybe it'd quiet the screams I keep hearing in my sleep.”

“Screams?” Sam said sharply, but he didn't get to ask anything else before _something_ made them all fall to the ground.

God, it was like the one time someone had slipped a roofie into his drink. Everything went spinning, and colors that shouldn't exist exploded across his eyes like a nauseating parade. He didn't know which way was up or down, and every time he tried to move, a purple-green-black-brown weight sang in his ears and held him to the earth.

It wasn't possible to figure out how much time had passed, but the longer it went on, the more Dean's senses blanked out, until all he could hear was the screaming in his dreams and what almost sounded like a plea for help.

Mercifully, before it went on too long, he blacked out.


	3. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

_Screaming, shrieking, crying out, shouting. It was always the same, except when it wasn’t. The fire kept trying to touch his face and rake its fiery claws over him. Sam knew what to expect by now. More, he knew how to keep it from happening._

_It would work better if he knew he wasn’t dreaming, but he was all too aware. The fire played over his face, but it didn’t hurt him. It didn’t feel like anything but fingers. It didn’t smell like anything except air._

Sam really wished this was the first time he'd ever woken up feeling like someone had thrown him in front of a train, let him get hit, then put him behind a reversing car for good measure, but it wasn't.

Every inch of his body hurt and felt bruised and sore, even though nothing actually felt broken. It was the kind of pain that promised that something being broken would be a _relief,_ which wasn't at all reassuring. In the very, very, very small part of his mind that wasn't occupied with screaming pain, Sam thought dimly that the first event that had brought the other Dean to them hadn't been anywhere _near_ that violent. He wondered what had changed.

He kept trying to think through the pain until it subsided enough for him to be able to see. He thought about praying for Cas, but wasn't able to find the words. The pain was keeping him from coherence.

A touch, somehow cooler than the hot agony going through him, brushed against his cheek. The pain subsided as soon as it had come on, and Sam gasped and opened his eyes.

Electric, nearly impossibly-blue eyes stared back at him from _entirely_ too close range.

Without thinking, Sam sat up, nearly bashing heads with Cas--it had to be Cas; no one else had those eyes--and looked frantically for Dean.

Dean was lying on a bed to Sam's left. Come to think of it, Sam belatedly realized that he was also on a bed. A double, to be precise.

Sam blinked. Where the _hell_ had the beds come from? They'd been (illegally) camping outside of Tombstone before the world had gone insane.

“Be still, Samuel,” Cas intoned, and wait, Cas never called him by his full name. What was going on? He looked over at Cas and did a double-take.

It wasn't as though Sam had never seen Castiel outside of a trenchcoat and cheap suit, but seeing him with the open trenchcoat wearing _jeans and combat boots_ was something else entirely. This Cas was also far more physically intimidating than the Cas Sam was used to seeing; muscles rippled smoothly beneath a t-shirt nearly the same shade as his eyes, and his jaw was clenched with something more than an angel's placid indifference.

Oh yeah. Sam was definitely not in Kansas anymore. Or Arizona. Wherever.

“Let me guess,” Sam said, surprised at the raspiness of his voice. He must have been out longer than he had realized. “I'm not your Sam, and that's not your Dean.”

“You would be correct in that assumption,” Castiel said, and whoa, Sam was not prepared to hear a rumbling voice come out of that body.

“You are safe here,” Cas continued as Dean mumbled and turned over. “Since Dean appears to have been hit harder by the shift-shock than you, he will be unconscious for longer.” Cas paused and cocked his head at Sam, an oddly familiar gesture in this stranger. “Rest assured, he will be awake soon.”

Was it Sam's imagination, or was Cas looking more at Dean than he was at Sam while he spoke? It was normal for _their_ Cas to do that, but this look was different from the respect Sam was accustomed to seeing. This Cas looked more _confused_ by Dean than anything else, even if the respect was still there.

Sam took Castiel's not-so-subtle suggestion and stopped moving, reclining against the headboard. He decided he would wait for Dean to wake up to fully assess the situation, but he would still try and get answers. “Where are we?” He asked.

“You are currently in Phoenix,” Castiel answered, not taking his slightly perturbed gaze off of Dean.

“Not really far off then, I guess,” Sam muttered, then spoke louder. “How long have we been out?”

“Since your arrival, approximately an hour,” Castiel answered, finally shifting his gaze from Dean to Sam. The discomposed expression didn't leave his face. If anything, it seemed to get deeper. “I presume that Dean was not in the vicinity when the first crossover occurred?”

“He wasn't, no,” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It was just me. He was off getting supplies.”

“So my counterpart has said,” Cas said with an air of satisfaction.

Sam sighed at the angel’s redundant questioning, but decided not to call him on it. Something about the angel’s casual statement suddenly caught his attention, and he promptly forgot his earlier irritation.

“Angels can communicate between the universes?” Sam asked incredulously. “Even between their other selves?”

“There does not appear to be a significant difference between the Castiel of your universe and the Castiel I am,” was the reply, which was about as clear as mud. “Be that as that may,” Castiel continued, sitting at the foot of Sam's bed, “we retain that connection between our consciousnesses as we live. Actually _speaking_ takes a toll on our grace and concentration. The fact that both of you disappeared from your rightful places had my counterpart...frantic.”

 _This_ Cas didn't look frantic, but Sam guessed he wouldn't be, since _his_ charges had presumably not disappeared on him.

A soft jangle of keys announced the arrival of someone was at the door. Since Cas didn't look at all alarmed (one of the few expressions Sam knew the angel was actually capable of making), Sam didn't bother moving. The rough-sounding click of the key turning in the lock reached Sam's ears, and the knob turned without so much as a squeak.

A second later, Sam got a direct explanation as to why Cas looked so confused at the sight of him. Standing in the doorway, sure as he knew his own name, was a woman who looked nearly exactly like him.

Well, not _exactly_ like him. He wasn't sure he'd wish all of his own features on some unsuspecting woman, but there was no doubt that they'd be mistaken for twins if they left the motel together.

She was _tall._ Sam wasn't used to seeing tall women, but she was at _least_ six feet tall, and was possibly even Dean's height. Her hair was the same color as his, but it was longer and braided over her right shoulder. Her eyes were the same shape as his, and she even had the mole on one side of her nose. Her features were more aquiline, and her jawbone was somehow stubborn and delicate at the same time. All in all, there was no doubt they were related.

Her clothes were simple enough; a black tank top hugged her body underneath an over-shirt of blue flannel, and her jeans were comfortable-looking without that skintight quality a lot of women seemed to prefer. It wasn't like Sam didn't enjoy seeing a woman in tight clothes, but it seemed impractical, not to mention uncomfortable.

Sam wondered if it was a bad thing to suddenly see what he'd look like as a woman and think that, were things (like their _genetic code_ ) any different, he'd try hitting on her.

“You're awake,” she said in a low, soft voice, probably pitched that way to avoid waking Dean. She seemed to suddenly realize that she was in the doorway and letting out the air conditioning, because she stepped fully inside and let the door shut softly behind her.

“Dee's parking the car and getting supplies,” she continued, sounding far calmer than Sam expected. “As soon as we recovered from that worldquake-thing, we got you two here.” She shook her head a little. “I don’t know why,” she continued, sounding both confused and irritated, “but it dumped you right outside our motel room. It’d have been easier if you’d just appeared on the beds.”

Sam could understand her mild anger. He wouldn’t want to haul people the size of Dean or him either.

“So you've had time to get used to us,” Sam said equally softly. “Are you finding this as weird as I am?”

She chuckled, and Sam was struck by the lightness of the sound. “Oh, definitely,” she agreed. “I'm already as tall as any man, but to see myself _as_ a man?”

“Same thing, reversed,” Sam retorted, chuckling a bit himself before sobering. “Can you two explain why Dean's not awake yet?”

“This transition was considerably rougher than the last,” Cas said solemnly. “The universes are all trying to force the rifts between them closed.” He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully, then continued. “It also does not help that the last such event removed _both_ of you from your rightful place. In attempting to restore order, your universe did not easily relinquish its grip as whatever force opened the rifts took you here.”

“Then who opened the damn things?” A pained groan came from the other bed, and Sam turned with a smile to look at Dean, who was propping himself up on his elbows and blinking like the lights hurt his eyes.

“That would be the million dollar question,” Sam's double said tightly.

Dean focused on her abruptly, and his eyes widened as he looked from her to Sam and back again. She sighed, and Dean apparently took that as an invitation to give her a once-over. However, once he opened his mouth, she held her hand up and said, “yes, my name's Samantha. I don't know what's about to come out of your mouth, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to hear it.”

When Sam raised an eyebrow at her, she shrugged. “If he's anything like my sister, he was going to take the joke and run with it.”

“Your _sister--_ ” Dean began to say, before the door barged open and a sandy-blond woman stalked in, anger in her stance.

“ _God_ , Sammy,” the woman said, and Sam was struck dumb by the huskiness in her voice. “You would not _believe_ the fricking parking situation around this place! Everyone's fighting for the shade like two dogs over a bone, and--” She cut herself off. Sam knew he was staring at her, and he figured Dean was too, but he didn’t bother to check.

The female Dean rolled her eyes, groaned, shifted her over-shirt aside to show a familiar handgun holstered at her waist, and put a hand on the handle. “What the _hell_ are you two staring at?!” She snapped.

Sam managed to stop staring long enough to glance at Dean, who looked thunderstruck. Apparently Dean wasn't stunned enough to keep quiet, because the next words out of his mouth were, “the hottest woman I've ever seen in my life.”

Samantha snorted. “Well, at least _that's_ remained consistent,” she muttered. “I'm not sure what I'd do if your male counterpart wasn't narcissistic too.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” the female Dean grumbled. “Anyone want food from the diner next door? It's lunchtime and not hot enough to kill anyone yet, so we can walk.”

Sam glanced over at the clock and noticed that it was past noon. The physical displacement during universe-jumping must have taken a lot longer than he would have guessed, or maybe the sensation actually _did_ take as long as it felt like it did. That wasn't up for study right now, though; his stomach was rumbling loudly.

“I could eat,” he admitted, and saw Dean nodding out of the corner of his eye. “We've been camping, and--”

“--rations are shorter than usual,” Samantha finished for him. “Deanna and I know all about that.”

Deanna. His brother's female double was _Deanna._ Sam filed that away for future Dean-torturing reference.

“Now, are we going, or are we going to just sit here going gray?” Deanna asked, flipping a lock of short hair away from her disturbingly pretty face.

Sam, as he got up, just wondered if seeing what he and Dean would look like as women merited getting professional help.

Lunch was...an experience.

It wasn't just that five tall people walking into a diner in Phoenix was an unusual sight, but Sam knew full well the majority of the people there were staring at his and Dean's female counterparts with shock and surprise. Tall women weren't that common, and ones as good-looking as Samantha and Deanna were probably less so.

Deanna was ridiculously beautiful. Samantha was too, but it was like all of Dean's teenage prettiness had suddenly morphed into this assault on peoples’ senses. Dean, Sam remembered, had hated being so pretty, even though it had gotten him a ton of attention. Deanna must have had a similar problem, because she ignored all the stares she was getting except when people got rude.

Sam was pretty impressed. He didn't think he'd ever seen such stealthy hand-breaking in his life. He was also sure he'd never seen someone actually _attempt_ an ass-grab in broad daylight in front of everyone. The innocent act Deanna put on was alarmingly convincing.

Even while the idiot who had actually tried to grab Deanna's ass was crying and trying to complain to management, a waitress was finding them a seat and assuring them that the guy would be dealt with appropriately. According to the woman (who made eyes first at Dean, then at Cas, then at him; Sam wasn't sure whether to be flattered or not), that guy often caused trouble and had been kicked out before, but this would get him banned for good.

“Thanks to that, your meal's on me, Miss,” the waitress concluded, smiling at Deanna.

Deanna smiled back. “Always happy to take an idiot out of commission,” she said. “I think I'll need a few minutes to decide.”

“Your family's meals are on us too,” the waitress added. “I'm Jennifer, so if there's anything you need, I'll be here!”

She walked away, and Deanna blew out a breath. “Damn,” she said. “I wish I got that kind of reaction every time I beat someone up.”

“I do too,” Samantha said with an eye-roll. “God, I thought Dad would freak when he saw me beating up that Marine buddy of his.”

“Only until he realized the guy had been trying shit on you,” Deanna pointed out. “Then he _helped._ ”

“Guess that's something,” Dean said, looking at the menu on the table. “Dad was always pretty fair about that sort of thing.”

Deanna and Samantha traded a look, and Sam realized, with a weird sense of certainty, that the sisters' relationship with their father had been better than Dean and Sam's with theirs. Or maybe it was due to the fact that, having had daughters instead of sons, John was more inclined to be a little easier on them. Looking at the way they sat, Sam doubted their world's version of their father would have gone easier by much; they were both alert, neither were out of shape, and Samantha in particular had broad shoulders that pulled at the fabric of the light flannel she was wearing.

They were also looking around the place the same way Sam and Dean did when they entered a new environment. Sam had seen the gun Deanna had holstered, but the over-shirt she was wearing concealed it nicely and helped hide her body a bit. Sam was also amused that his female counterpart's chest was larger than Dean's female counterpart's.

Even more interestingly, Deanna was not dressed to attract attention. She was wearing clothing similar to Samantha's, but the over-shirt was red flannel and hung off her more noticeably. Sam knew it was probably due to the gun, but it did make her look a bit bigger than she was as well. Sam thought that may have been the point, or maybe it was to detract from the fact that Deanna was _really_ good-looking, and a good-looking woman didn't get the same kind of polite consideration Dean would have gotten.

Sam didn't doubt that Deanna had effective ways of obtaining information, but when trying to get information out of men, she would probably also have had to contend with not-so-subtle attempts to obtain sexual favors. Sam, having had similar treatment over the years, knew that dealing with women who knew things was easier than men. That probably explained why the gun was at her waist and not at her back.

Not liking the dark turn his thoughts were taking, Sam decided to let the diner surroundings soak into him. Chattering children and the lower voices of their parents filtered in, taking a bit of the tenseness out of his shoulders. The diner wasn't old, but it also wasn't modern; the seating was brown and cushy, and far from refined. Mediocre artworks hung on the walls, high enough up that children couldn't reach them without attracting adult attention. Good food smells were in the air, demonstrating that they weren't going to get poisoned at least. It felt like home. God knew that Sam had eaten at some real shitholes over the years, and a dose of Montezuma's revenge wouldn't go well with the general feeling of confusion that had been simmering in him since yesterday.

They were in a semi-circular booth, which was one of the few the restaurant space boasted. Since Cas was by far the most mobile of them, he was sitting between Sam and Deanna, who were facing each other. Samantha and Dean were on the outermost edges of the ring, with Dean sitting next to Sam. It almost looked like they were all on a date, with Cas was their chaperone.

From the small smirk on Samantha's face, he knew that he wasn't the only person thinking it.

Jennifer the waitress returned while Sam was fighting the smile trying to overtake his face at the thought of Cas playing protective older brother to the women at the table. “Y'all ready to order?” She asked.

Briefly bemused by encountering more Southernisms even after they'd left the big state of Texas, Sam rattled off an order for eggs, hashbrowns and fruit. To his surprise, Samantha and Deanna got the same thing he did, and Dean opted for the sausage platter with toast and fruit.

Castiel got black coffee and a strange look from the waitress.

Once the waitress was gone, Deanna leaned her elbows against the table, but just as she was about to open her mouth, Jennifer came back with a tray and glasses of water. “I forgot to give you guys drinks,” she said apologetically. “Did you want anything else?”

“Coffee for me, please,” Dean said, obviously giving the waitress his come-on smile. Sam wasn't really noticing what other people looked like right now, so he had to assume Dean either really did think the waitress was hot, or he was just being flirty because he could.

“Could we actually get a carafe?” Samantha asked with a demure smile. “We didn't get much sleep last night.”

The waitress' eyebrows shot up to her hairline, but her smile didn't lose any wattage. “Sure,” she said, somehow seeming even perkier than she had before. “It should be out around the same time as your food!”

“Perfect, thank you,” Deanna said with her own smile.

The waitress was practically twinkling as she walked away, and Sam wondered briefly why that was; then he glanced to the side and saw Dean almost pouting. He got it then and grinned wickedly. It wasn't often that Dean got beaten at his own game.

Deanna sighed a bit. “Well, you're here, we're here, and Cas is always here,” she said, resting her chin on one hand. “What happened to you that didn't happen to us?”

“Regarding the visitor from another dimension?” Dean asked, trying to fake the Twilight Zone announcer voice. Sam snorted quietly, but the foot that nailed his shin a second later told him he hadn't been quiet enough.

“We got one too,” Samantha said quietly, looking down at the table. “We got a male me.” She looked up at Sam and looked a little confused. “Well, you. Except he _wasn't_ you.”

“The confusion's normal,” Sam assured her. “We got another Dean who wasn't Dean.”

“He was a handsome devil, too,” Dean murmured with a smirk.

“You _would_ think that,” Samantha and Sam said at the same time. They looked at each other, and Sam knew that he was probably blushing, but the look on his counterpart's face was more deja-vu than embarrassment. It was entirely possible that Samantha and the alternate-Sam they had had as a guest had done the same thing a few times.

Sam empathized. He'd spent the past several hours or so in a similar situation.

“You will find that the differences are smaller than one would naturally expect when meeting your counterparts from across the universes,” Cas said then, shocking Sam a bit. After having dealt with a slightly-crazy but somewhat more humanized Cas for the past several months, returning to a completely-sane, remote Cas felt surreal.

“Sample size hasn't quite gotten to that point yet, Cas,” Samantha pointed out, and Sam nodded. He saw Dean nodding next to him out of the corner of his eye as well. Deanna just shrugged.

“How does meeting all our other selves help us solve this problem, anyway?” Dean asked.

“I am not sure encountering your other selves is even the point of this entire exercise,” Cas said, and appeared to ruminate on that.

He was still doing it a few minutes later when a hot carafe of coffee, along with cream and sugar packets, was set gently down on the table. The food was placed down in front of each of them shortly after with a sweet smile from Jennifer the waitress, before she reminded them she'd be happy to help if they needed so much as an extra napkin.

She then bustled away, presumably to wait on other tables, while they all (except Castiel) ate their food. It was good; one of the main reasons Sam ordered eggs and hashbrowns was due to the near-impossibility of messing them up, even if the place they happened to choose wasn't a good one.

That wasn't a danger with this place. The food was hot and fresh, and the fruits of the season were apparently strawberries and cantaloupe. Sam sighed at the melon. He loved it, but for some reason, whenever he ate it, he would taste it in his mouth for hours afterward.

He pushed the cantaloupe aside in what he hoped was a subtle fashion and focused on eating the rest of the meal. Camping didn't leave much room for super-filling food, and the burritos on the road were the last decent meal Sam had eaten. Eating on the go was anything but restful, and Sam felt happier about this than he probably should.

Between the four of them, they probably finished eating in about fifteen minutes, but that was just part of the hunter's lifestyle. In a sense, they had actually eaten _slowly._ Sam was the first person to finish, and he pushed the melon he hadn't touched over to Dean, who ate them cheerfully.

Sam had long realized that, while getting Dean to eat vegetables was a chore in and of itself, giving him fruit guaranteed he'd not leave a bite behind.

“If we're not supposed to be meeting each other like this,” Sam said, letting the food settle in his belly with a sigh of satisfaction, “then did this whole situation just randomly happen on its own?”

“This event is cosmic in its scope,” Cas said, keeping his voice low. “It is not simply something that can, as you said, 'just randomly happen.'”

“Share with the class, Cas,” Deanna drawled, suddenly so much like Dean that it twisted things in Sam's stomach. Glancing at her across the table, he noticed her arms were folded and that very stubborn expression Dean was prone to making was on her face.

It looked prettier on her, at least.

“Few things contain enough power to rip holes between the realms,” Cas said, his hands curled around his coffee mug. It wasn't a gesture Sam and Dean's Castiel would make, and that helped drive home the strangeness of this situation.

Somber blue eyes met Sam's, then glanced at each person sitting with him. “I cannot help but feel that, for whatever reason this did happen, it is directly connected with the male Sam and Dean’s universe,” Castiel concluded, still looking thoughtful and disturbed. “However, considering that the choices made in each place are often different, there must be causation present with us as well.”

“What do you mean, choices are different everywhere?” Dean asked, sounding baffled.

“Each universe is characterized by one choice having altered from what we may consider 'universe one,'” Cas said, taking on the tone of a college lecturer. Sam suddenly wondered if he should be taking notes. “One decision can change someone's entire future, even if the choice is not in the hands of the maker.”

“You two being male, and Deanna and I being female,” Samantha said, getting an enlightened look on her face. “Could something so small as a _chromosome_ really affect everything else?”

“The smallest details, as many have said before, are often the biggest details in disguise,” Castiel quoted somberly. “Many things might have differed had you two been born male.”

“It didn't stop Stull,” Samantha muttered, sounding broken.

The tone of her voice galvanized Sam into reaching across the table to lay a hand over hers. “I don't think anything could have,” he said, trying to comfort her the way Dean had later. So _much_ later. After his _soul_ had returned and he had gotten some semblance of _sanity_ back later. “It took me years to come to that conclusion.”

“It's hard for her to live with,” Deanna said quietly, playing with her fork. “Me too, sometimes.”

“Not much else that could have been done,” Dean said, sounding calmer about the matter than Sam had ever heard. “How long are you going to beat yourself up about this? It won't solve things.”

Glancing over at Dean, Sam realized that the expression on Dean's face was that of a realization coming from hard-won experience. Sam's heart lightened a bit at the sight. It didn't look like Dean was putting on any sort of act for their sisters ( _God, he had alternate universe sisters; could his life get weirder?_ ), so maybe, if Dean could move on from it, Sam could too.

“Done?” Jennifer the overly-perky waitress asked, appearing at their table. Sam laughed a little and nodded, reaching for his wallet, only to be stopped by Deanna. She teasingly shook her finger at Sam, then reached into her wallet and, to Sam's astonishment, handed the waitress a wad of bills instead of a credit card, cheerfully ignoring the waitress’s attempt to hand the money back. 

“Jennifer,” Deanna said finally, “I would have beaten that man up for _free._ Pass it forward to someone who can’t pay for their meal, and I’ll consider us square.” She followed it up with a charming smile, and Sam tried to hide his grin at the way Jennifer sighed and nodded, acknowledging the point.

When Jennifer walked away with the money to make change, Deanna said quietly, “we've gotten a bit too close to the authorities for comfort, so we make sure to take jobs and earn cash whenever we stop for longer than a week.”

“Ah,” Sam breathed softly.

“Makes sense,” Dean said, equally low. “We'll have to start doing that.”

“Hendrickson?” Samantha asked, speaking normally.

Sam nodded. “He taught us to be careful,” he said, trying to sound casual. Even after all these years, the man's death still stung. It hadn't been his fault that he'd gotten caught by Lilith.

Something must have gotten through his poker face, because when he withdrew his hand from Samantha's, Deanna covered it with her own. Sam couldn't meet her eyes, so he ducked his head.

“Shit happens,” she said, startling a laugh out of him, but he waited until the lump had left his throat before he raised his head back up.

It was then that Jennifer returned with the change, some of which was put back into her hand with an oddly flirty “use it for something nice” from Deanna. Sam exchanged a slow look with Dean, but Sam noticed that Dean looked more amused than surprised. Sam made a note to ask Dean about that later, when all the insanity was solved.

Sam sighed and drank some of the coffee, then followed it up with the last of the water. “Should we go?” He asked, curling his hands around the mug. “Something tells me we're not going to want to be in public for some of what we have to discuss.”

“I agree with you,” Samantha said. “Last call for coffee and the like. Are we all set?”

Two more nods and a solemn head incline (Castiel, of course) led them all to shuffle awkwardly out of the booth. Sam had an odd moment where he was thankful that he wasn't wearing shorts, since his lower thighs _always_ stuck to the seats when it was hot. He shook his head briefly, earning an odd look from everyone else, but he didn't try to explain. It was too weird a memory to describe aloud.

The walk back to the motel was as silent as the walk to the restaurant, but once the door shut behind Castiel with an ominous sounding click, Deanna rounded on Dean and poked him in the chest. “Tell me what you know,” she demanded.

“You'd be better off asking me,” Sam said mildly, knowing better than to antagonize her. If she was anything like Dean, firing back at her with a similar demand would either make her clam up or pull the gun. Neither situation would be helpful.

“I was the one who talked more to him, since Dean spent a lot of the time out of it,” Sam continued. “We were up half the night talking.”

Dean looked dumbfounded. “Half the night?” He said incredulously. “Sam, did you sleep at _all?_ ”

“Probably no more than I've been sleeping lately,” Samantha admitted with a sigh, fiddling with the end of her braid before tossing it over her shoulder. “Nightmares, you know.”

“Um, no,” Dean said slowly, in the way he spoke to cops and small children. “I don’t really think I do, beyond our usual stuff.”

Sam grimaced and resisted the urge to run a hand over his face, but only barely. He couldn’t hide it now, so he just decided to go with the plain truth. “I haven't been sleeping,” he said flatly. “Not as bad as when I was hallucinating, but not great either.”

He regretted saying anything even as he talked, because Dean's face got darker and darker with every word.

“I keep having dreams,” he continued, and that stopped the tirade he could see building in Dean as fast as puncturing a tire. “I can't tell if they're like the ones I had _before._ ” He raised his eyebrows to let everyone know what he meant. “When they wake me up, I can't go back to sleep unless I want to go right back into it again.”

“Sounds like what I've been having,” Samantha said in a low voice, falling backwards onto the bed closest to the door. The bed whumped as her full weight landed on it. “It's been easier to sleep during the day. The dreams can't touch me then.”

“Screaming, and blood, and dead people,” Sam said, more to Samantha than anyone else in the room, sitting on the edge of the bed she was occupying and staring at his hands. “Sometimes I hear words, but it's mostly screaming. The voices sounds terrified.”

Nobody spoke for a while after that.

Cuddling with yourself was not supposed to be easy, Sam thought, but Samantha made it simple. It probably helped that she could manhandle him as easily as he could her, but the thing that made it great was the insignificant height difference. She was the tallest woman he'd ever met, and that meant he didn't have to bend as much to find her a comfortable position. Right now, they were reclining against the headboard, her head on his shoulder and his head resting on hers without danger of a crick forming. It was comforting.

He didn't think cuddling was going to make the bombshell of his and Samantha's nightmares disappear, but it did make it easier to face the world. It also made him wonder why the hell they were just cuddling after the small argument from earlier, but that was more of a side-thought.

“I've been hearing it too,” Dean said after a while. He and Deanna were in a similar position on the other bed. Castiel was perched calmly on the dresser set that held the mirror, trench-coat spread out a bit beneath him.

“Hearing what?” Sam asked, trying not to tense up. He'd just started relaxing in this position.

“The screaming,” Dean replied. Not being able to see Dean without moving made it hard to judge, but Sam thought Dean sounded tired. “In my sleep. I hear screaming in my sleep.”

Sam absorbed that thought slowly. Dean didn't seem to expect an immediate response, and he heard  shifting from the other bed that was probably Deanna turning to face him.

In the half hour or so since Sam had intimated that the long-dormant powers he had had might have been reawakening, he found that both women had a fondness for contact that neither he nor Dean had (either that or they had learned to ignore it) and they apparently used it to solve problems with each other. Weird as that thought was, Sam couldn't deny that he felt calmer than he normally did after letting a secret out.

He had also learned that Deanna was apparently nearly impossible to please in the cuddling department, which was probably why she was over with Dean instead; she had complained Sam was “too bony.”

“Why didn't you tell me that when it first started happening?” Sam asked instead, knowing what was going to be said but needing it out in the open anyway.

“I thought it was leftovers from the past few years,” came Dean's answer, which was unexpected. Sam had been expecting Dean to gruffly say that he hadn't said anything for the same reason Sam hadn't.

“It's been going on for at least two weeks now,” Dean continued, as if Sam's thoughts hadn't just been scrambled by that casual admission. “I didn't know if I was losing it or not.”

Sam blinked hard, and the arm around Samantha's shoulders tightened a bit. If cuddling had the effect of actually making Dean talk, he'd have to figure out a way to do it himself more often. Preferably without Dean punching him for even trying.

“Same here,” Deanna said. “Of course, when Sammy and I have problems, we actually do something radical and _discuss_ them when they come up.”

Sam couldn't see her at the moment, but suddenly he was _positive_ she was rolling her eyes.

A soft chuckle against his shoulder made Sam look down, only to see Samantha grinning up at him. “Well, she has a point,” she said merrily. “We discuss things constantly.”

“Must be a woman thing,” Dean grumbled.

“We _are_ women, dude,” Deanna pointed out in the small-children-and-cops voice. “It's not hard to see that we're probably smarter about things than you are.”

Samantha chuckled again, but declined to say anything, and despite himself, Sam felt himself grinning. He sobered quickly. “So, much as I hate to drag us back here, what about these nightmares?”

“Dunno,” Deanna and Samantha sighed at the same time. Neither one of them even twitched at the simpatico, so Sam assumed that it happened often enough to not startle them anymore.

“I sometimes hear words,” Samantha continued, “but nothing concrete.” She sighed a bit. “It doesn't help that I don't like going to sleep knowing what I'm going to see and hear.”

“Same,” Deanna said. “We gathered some of the words and wrote them down after we woke up and realized what was happening, but all we really hear is 'help'---”

“Which isn't surprising,” Dean interjected, but Deanna kept talking.

“--'barrier,' and for some reason, 'spell,'” Deanna finished, sounding frustrated. “And yeah, because it's hard to sleep, we're not getting the stuff we could be getting if we could just _sleep._ ”

Sam groaned at the catch-22. “Are we supposed to assume that someone's actually talking to us in our sleep?” He demanded. “How would that work?”

“Well, comparing notes is a start,” Samantha pointed out. She patted his leg and sat up with a reluctant-sounding groan. “Problem is, remembering something is harder when sleep-deprived. There's also the fact that we might all be having different versions of the same dream.”

“Oh, _that_ would just be our luck,” Dean muttered. “So what, then? We keep notebooks next to our beds for the next few nights and hope to paint a picture?”

“Exactly,” Samantha said. Turning his head, Sam could see Dean staring at Samantha with wide eyes; apparently she'd startled him by agreeing. “If we do that, maybe we can figure out a way to pass messages between each other to get that picture we need.”

“My counterparts would be able to communicate across the universes,” Castiel said somberly, making Sam jump a little. Up until that point, the angel had been so silent that Sam had nearly forgotten he was there. “It would require considerable energy, but such a broadcast would enable every version of me to have the same information nearly instantaneously.”

“That works,” Deanna said, sitting up from her position. Sam noted with amusement that she had practically been using Dean for a pillow at that point; no wonder she had said he was too bony. Dean, for all of his physical strength, was somewhat softer than Sam was at the best of times. “We keep notes, talk with our respective angels, and pass on the info.”

“Angel radio, the only way to fly?” Dean asked with a semi-sarcastic grin. He sat up on the bed and put his legs over the side.

Despite himself, Sam chuckled as he also sat up, only to feel a sickly familiar dizziness push him flat. Dimly, through the nausea and the whooshing sounds, he heard Dean also hit the bed, and felt Samantha fall down next to him.

It was the last thing he was aware of before he lost consciousness.


	4. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

_Fire. Fire was everywhere. Fire was on the ceiling eating his mother. Fire was on the ceiling turning Jess into ashes. Fire lined the walls, preventing his escape. The screaming was everywhere and nowhere, sourceless and inescapable. The fire was screaming. The screaming was fire. The words tugged at him weirdly. The words were all he could hear. The words were fire._

_“Summon---help---barrier--break---need--”_

Dean tried to shake the dream off. He needed to sleep and he needed to wake up and write the words down. What he wanted was really weird. His thoughts didn't quite make sense. The dreams themselves never did make sense.

“Do you think he's awake yet?”

“Not if he's as sound asleep as--well, _him._ ”

Dean felt a moment of deja-vu as he slowly woke up. He remembered Sam and that biker-version of him talking while he was sleeping, but the last thing he remembered was the woman-him falling across his body. She’d apparently really liked lying on him. It would have been sexy had she not been _him._

That would probably never make sense, no matter how many times he thought it. 

“'m not sleeping,” he slurred, even though he kept his eyes shut. “Where am I?”

A gravelly chuckle sounded from above him, and Dean felt the need to shut his eyes tighter. He knew that voice.

“You're not going to hide from the world forever, doofus,” said the painfully familiar voice. “I already had to deal with looking at you, so you can damn well look at me too.”

Dean sighed and opened his eyes. Sure enough, there was his own face, with his own amused smirk. The resemblance ended there. This Dean had shorter hair, almost military style, darker eyes, and scars on his face. Some of them were relatively minor and looked old, but a few, like the long gash running parallel to his jawbone and the ripped-looking cut on his face, looked more recent. Despite himself, Dean winced. He knew that their lifestyle didn't allow for many hospital visits, but those injuries should have at least had proper suturing.

“Yeah, my skin's not as baby-smooth as yours, man,” the other Dean said, grinning a bit, “but the ladies don't mind and neither do I. Get over it.”

“I'd look like that too if I hadn't gotten all my scars erased,” Dean pointed out, voice gravelly. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but judging from the sound of his voice, it'd been at least an hour.

“Guess that's our difference,” scarred-him said cheerfully. “I've never had plastic surgery, so all my scars are on me, same as they'll ever be.” 

Dean made an incoherent sound of disgust at the thought of surgery as he slowly sat up, his counterpart helping him without making a big deal of it. Even though constantly meeting himself was never going to be anything other than _weird,_ he did find himself liking the fact that they understood him without having to have drawn-out conversations about his _feelings._

“I can't decide whether I'm jealous of you or not,” he informed the other man, looking around. They still weren't anywhere near their Tombstone campsite, but weren't in another motel room. There was a lot of greenery up here, and a large tent was set up near a tree. He could hear a stream gurgling somewhere nearby, and the cool weather felt like a blessing after the insane heat from earlier that day.

At least, he _thought_ it was earlier that day. Jumping around universes apparently really screwed with his sense of time.

He took a deep breath and suddenly realized that his lungs weren't expanding as much as they normally did. He did his best to remain calm and asked, “where are we?”

“Up at a small campsite off of Show Low, Arizona,” the other-him said, handing him a sealed water bottle. “You're having trouble breathing because you're several thousand feet higher than where you started. You aren't injured.”

“Where's Sam?” Dean asked, after having a sip of water. His throat felt less abraded afterwards.

“In the tent,” his other self answered. “He hasn't quite come around yet. You've been out for at least two hours.”

“We've been kind of worried,” a hoarse voice said softly, and Dean whipped his head around fast, only to regret it immediately when he got suddenly and horrifyingly dizzy.

“Be careful!” The man ordered, and Dean took a few gasping breaths that at least helped calm the vertigo, even if it didn't touch the need for oxygen. “It's a lot easier to get dizzy up here because of the thinner air. If you move too fast, you'll hurt yourself.”

Dean heard everything the other man said. He was just too focused on the fact that the voice belonged to a _Sam_ to really understand the words.

The Sam sitting on the other side of him wasn't different enough from _his_ Sam to raise alarm bells. The hair was shorter and more controlled, the mouth grimmer, and the shoulders perhaps broader, if that was even possible, but the really big difference was the scar tissue that appeared to surround this Sam's neck like a demonic choker.

Instead of staring further and making an ass of himself, Dean took the small pencil and paper pad out of his pocket and quickly wrote down the words he had heard in the dream, and took his time about it in order to regain his composure.

A soft laugh told him his attempt to be polite hadn't been successful.

“Let's get you into the tent,” the other Sam said, and gently took hold of his right bicep while the other-him took the left. Between the two other men and Dean's own efforts, they got him to his feet and held him while the reduced oxygen again made him dizzy.

Slowly, they moved into the tent, and like they’d said, Sam was lying there, apparently still out. Dean saw Sam’s fingers clenching and unclenching and his mouth moving, and knew Sam was still in the midst of some kind of dream. Instead of shaking him awake, he gently tapped his foot against Sam's until his breathing changed.

The other two lowered Dean to the ground until he was sitting cross-legged near Sam's feet, then seated themselves on either side of Sam. Dean noticed that scarred-him was wearing a green henley shirt and a black-and-grey flannel overshirt, while the other Sam wore a thick-woven cable-knit sweater in red. They looked clean. Dean, for the first time, felt a little self-conscious about his own clothing. He probably still had sand everywhere.

“We're cool, Sam,” he said aloud, trying to not sound like he'd just been choked. He wished he didn't know what that actually felt like. “It's safe here.”

Sam blinked, then managed to get his eyes open. “Dean,” he said huskily, and Dean noticed the other Sam wince. “Hard to breathe.”

The other Sam sighed and looked resigned. “Sitting up helps,” he said, and Sam turned his head to face him. Dean couldn't really see the expression on Sam's face at this angle, but something made the other Sam relax and reach out to help Sam into a sitting position.

“Show Low,” Dean said before Sam could ask. “We're still somehow in Arizona, though I didn't know parts of it had reasonable weather.”

The other Sam and Dean laughed at that, and even Dean's Sam chuckled. “We learn something new every day, I guess,” he noted, feeling at his pockets. “Does anyone have some paper and a pencil?”

Dean handed his over with a smirk. “Now you know I don't just carry this for girls,” he said with a wink.

“Shut up,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. He did it with a smile on his face, so Dean was pretty sure he didn't actually mean it.

“You've been having the dreams too?” The scarred Dean asked, and Dean saw the shock on Sam's face when he noticed who was talking.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said, apparently getting it back together in a hurry. “I need to write down what I got.”

“Fire everywhere?” The other Sam asked gently, apparently mindful of both his voice and the subject.

Sam just nodded and scribbled down whatever he'd heard in the dream near where Dean had put his.

A hand appeared in front of Dean's face, and he looked down to see the other Dean offering him a pad of paper. “We got the idea from the siblings who came before you. This is what we've recorded,” he said. “Anything match up at all?”

Dean read the paper, but all he saw were words he had already dreamed. A flapping sound got his attention up from the pad, only to see Sam offering him his own pad and pencil back. Taking it with a nod, he compared the two and noted that, while Sam had only added “gateway” and “binding” to it, the lists were virtually identical. He handed both pads to the other Dean, who compared them and wrote the words Sam had added on his own, before handing Dean's back.

It was the other Sam who summed it all up. “Well, this gives us approximately jack and shit.”

That startled a laugh out of Sam and Dean. “Well, we're Winchesters,” Dean said, smiling. “What else is new?”

“Actually, we're Campbells,” the other Dean said calmly.

 _That_ brought him up short. “Not Winchesters?” Sam asked, sounding surprised.

“Not anymore,” the other Sam shrugged, the movement oddly ominous. Dean knew for sure now that this scarred Sam was broader than Dean’s Sam. Dean didn't even think it was _possible_ for Sam for be even bigger than he was, but here he was, getting proven wrong. This Sam had to have shoulders the size of tree trunks.

“Dad died six months after Sammy was born,” the other Dean said conversationally. Dean guessed it _would_ be conversational since it had happened so long ago, but it still made him flinch.

“Turns out Dad had been initiated in the hunting life before he’d met Mom,” the other Sam rasped. “Some of his buddies in the military had been hunters, and they’d taught him what they knew before he got out and married Mom. He'd found the Colt on an online auction and bought it. He'd kept it on or near him all the time, and never told Mom the reason why. So when Azazel broke into the house and tried to do something to Sammy in his crib--”

“--Dad shot him,” Sam breathed. “Did he--?” He glanced at his counterpart, who silently shook his head with a small smile.

“Nothing happened to me, but that yellow-eyed fucker killed Dad with his dying breath while Mom got us out,” the other Sam said, running a hand through his hair. “Mom went to some hunters she knew, some of whom were the Marines who had taught Dad, and we were raised there. She taught us about hunting when we were older and explained everything.”

Dean shook his head a little, trying to hide the pain the story gave him. The idea of his dad protecting their family and dying for it when they were still children did things to his insides he didn't like. Having his mom alive and not burned on the ceiling in at least _one_ universe was some kind of weird compensation, but he hoped that, in at least one place in a parallel universe somewhere, both of his parents lived and were happy.

“That's different from what happened to us all right,” Dean said, looking down at his clasped hands. Sam laid a hand on his knee in silent support, and Dean took a breath. “I was the one who killed Azazel.”

Indrawn gasps of breath were the only reaction Dean chose to notice. He didn't want to see the expressions on their other-selves' faces.

“Mom died on the ceiling and I was fed demon blood,” Sam took up the story, sounding somber. “Dad raised us on the road. I don't think we ever settled down longer than a month.”

“That sucks,” the other Dean said sympathetically. “I'm sorry for that.”

“Me too,” the other Sam agreed.

“It was how it was,” Dean said, trying hide the urge to cry with harshness. “We didn't know anything else.”

Silence met that declaration, and Dean found himself once again blessing the fact that having another version of himself around meant that he didn't have to constantly explain himself. The other-him just _knew_ how to handle things.

“Mom got pregnant again around the time Sammy turned four,” the other Dean continued suddenly. Dean figured his Campbell counterpart couldn’t tolerate the silence any better than Dean. “She had Adam, and the guy she was seeing suddenly went psycho and kidnapped him.”

“We got him back, but it took at least a year of her tracking the guy down to get close enough to kill him,” the other Sam said, sounding coldly angry. “By that point, he deserved to get put down like a rabid dog. Which she did.”

Dean was surprised enough to look up at that point. The other-him and the other Sam looked somber. Not for the first time, Dean wondered what growing up with another brother (aside from Sam) would have been like. He was about to ask what had happened to Adam to prevent him from being here with them today, but something made him pause and look at the other two guys more carefully.

The other Sam must have been equally as in touch with his emotions as Dean's Sam, and he looked nearly ready to cry. The other-him looked similar, which made Dean's skin crawl. He hated that look. It was one of the reasons he had started avoiding mirrors.

“He's in the same place as our Adam, then,” Dean said flatly, and felt Sam's hand twitch on his knee before it was pulled away.

The nods from their counterparts confirmed it.

A small silence ensued, then Sam broke it. “Aside from the words, has there been anything in the dreams that you remember?” He asked, leaning forward a bit with his elbows on his knees. “The words are probably important, but maybe you're seeing more than we're seeing. Anything could be useful.”

Dean was grateful for the break in conversation. “All I've been seeing is fire,” he admitted with a sigh. “I haven't seen anything super useful other than that, but I'll have to think on it.”

“How about you two?” Sam asked in that steady, considering way he sometimes got.

“I'm often surrounded by faces I can't quite see,” the other Sam said in his husky voice. “I get the feeling that if I could get maybe a foot closer to any one of the faces, I'd recognize who I was seeing, but it's just not happening yet.”

“I see what this guy sees,” the other Dean said, jabbing a hand at Dean. “Just fire. I wish I knew why we're all seeing separate stuff.”

“You and me both,” Dean said, then frowned. He wasn't sure if that phrase was right, somehow.

“Have you guys talked to Cas lately?” Sam asked. “Maybe we could compare notes with what he's been hearing.”

Blank looks met his statement. “Cas?” The other Sam asked slowly.

“Yeah,” Sam replied, looking confused. “Guy, not that tall, blue eyes that almost look fake, dresses like a bad tax professional?”

The other brothers looked at each other with equally confused looks on their faces, then turned back to face Sam and Dean. “We don't know any people named Cas,” the other Dean said slowly.

“His name's Castiel?” Dean asked, starting to feel frightened. “Talks like a robot? Doesn't get modern pop-culture references? Has an unholy fascination with bees and pervy pizza-men?”

“Still not ringing any bells, man,” the other Sam said. “What's he do normally?”

It was Sam and Dean's turn to exchange a confused look. Sam made a questioning look with his eyebrows. Dean shrugged and looked over at the guys with an eyebrow raise. Sam glared at him. Dean sighed, nodded, and turned back to the other brothers watching them.

“He's an angel,” Dean said, wishing he hadn't somehow drawn the short end of the non-verbal stick.

The other men stared at him, mouths open. Finally, the other Dean shut his, only to ask, “are you seriously telling us that angels _do_ exist?!”

Dean opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again, and shut it again. He knew he probably looked like a beached guppy, but he didn't know what else to even _say_ in the face of this. Angels had been a fact of Dean's existence for years. To suddenly meet other hunters who didn't even _know_ about the feathery assholes trying to manipulate things behind the scenes was almost more than he could tolerate.

Dean was speechless. Totally, completely, and unashamedly at a loss for any kind of communication. Lucky for him, Sam either didn't have the same problem, or was fighting it aside.

“Castiel, who art in Heaven,” Sam said flatly, and if the words didn't sound like any kind of prayer Dean had ever heard, he was sure the other people listening would have to just deal with it. “We request your presence.”

“What the hell is that going to do--” The other Dean started to say, before an all-too-familiar rustling of feathers, the beat of wings far larger than anything ever born should rightfully have, sounded through the clearing.

“I come in response to your request, Samuel Campbell-who-isn't,” the familiar soft, gravelly voice said. The other Sam and Dean whirled around behind them, because apparently, no matter the universe, Castiel still seemed to enjoy startling the shit out of people.

To Dean's relief, this Castiel didn't seem all that different from their own. The only noticeable differences were the lack of trenchcoat and the fact that his hair was brown, not black. Dean adjusted quickly to the differences, noting ironically that he must be getting used to being thrown around like this.

“The apocalypse didn't work out, huh?” Dean said instead, having suddenly found his voice. He almost regretted it after being on the receiving end of a deadly stare from the angel, but not enough to lower his gaze.

Instead of replying, the Cas-who-wasn't-theirs looked down on the Campbell brothers. Dean finally realized that, no matter that they had the same parents, this other Sam and Dean weren't Winchesters any more than Sam and Dean were Campbells. They hadn't been raised by a military father, but by a woman who had lost everything and had still managed to put together a semi-decent life for them.

Somewhere in his mind, Dean wondered if their father would have had the strength to do that. Somewhere deeper down, Dean had the feeling Dad hadn't.

“I cannot imagine this situation as quite the surprise you are indicating,” Castiel said slowly. “Surely you were already aware that demons existed?”

“What's that got to do with angels?” The other Dean choked out.

“Angels are the reason demons exist, Dean Campbell,” Castiel said somberly. “Our Father, who created us, enjoys balance.”

“Why didn't you come to them before?” Sam asked, almost sounding shy. “You had to have known you could have helped them.”

“The angels the reason you two don't have scars like ours?” Sam Campbell asked throatily.

“Part of the reason, yes,” Sam answered. “Others...well, we know a few good hospitals.”

Dean didn't bother saying anything. The bitterness on Sam Campbell's face was easy enough to see.

Castiel suddenly stopped and cocked his head up at the sky, spreading his arms in what looked like supplication. Even though the clearing was in direct sunlight, wing-shaped shadows erupted from the angel's back, displaying themselves against all possible laws of physics. Dean heard the indrawn breaths from the other brothers at this showing of raw power and defiance of the natural laws.

Dean started noticing whispering at the very edge of his hearing. To his frustration, nothing he heard was remotely understandable. He turned to face Sam, only to find him staring back at him with the same look of confusion on his face that Dean _knew_ was on his own.

The Campbell brothers looked just as lost as Dean felt. Even excusing the fact that they had just found out that angels actually existed, stuff like this was probably completely outside their wheelhouse, or their mom's knowledge base.

Finally, Castiel lowered his arms and the ghostly wings disappeared. The clearing, which had seemed darker previously, suddenly brightened again with the beginning of late afternoon sunlight. When Castiel lowered his head, his eyes were still sparkling with the use of his grace.

“Interesting,” he said tonelessly. “My counterparts have indicated that I should offer you aid.”

“You do that,” Dean replied, trying for the same amount of verbal expressionlessness. “You wanna explain why you never stepped in to help these guys first?”

“Infighting in the garrison over Mary Campbell and John Winchester's actions caused a deep rift among my siblings,” Castiel explained, sounding weary. “Until very recently, I was not at liberty to leave and offer assistance. Indeed, I was certain that I would not be greeted with, how shall I say, open arms.”

Dean Campbell opened his mouth, shut it again, then gestured for Castiel to move out from behind them. The angel, unsurprisingly, moved, but instead of taking a seat on the ground like the others, he chose to stand.

Dean sighed. This was such typical behavior from Cas that, except for the guy across from Dean basically wearing his face, he could almost have been home.

The look Castiel gave Dean next was weird, for lack of a better word. It almost looked like he was trying to search inside Dean's head, but didn't have the master key. Dean frowned at him, and Castiel turned to face Dean Campbell, who gave him a similarly questioning look right back.

Dean couldn't quite figure out the expressions on their faces, but all of a sudden, he understood. He and his Castiel had had a connection almost from the very start because the angel had rescued him from Hell, but this was _this_ Castiel and Dean's first meeting. They probably felt like they should know each other differently, but didn't. Looking over at Sam, Dean saw that Sam had noticed the same thing.

Sam cleared his throat a bit, and seemed to relax when Dean Campbell and Castiel stopped staring at each other to look at him. “Gentlemen, we do have that situation of ours to take care of, somehow,” he said awkwardly.

Sam Campbell snorted, and it sounded more like a raspy wheeze than a genuine sound of disgust. “Not that hard a problem to solve,” he said, waving a hand in the same way that Sam did when he thought he was being clever.

“Oh, stop being a bitch, Sam,” Dean Campbell groused, and the familiarity of it made Dean twitch. “You know it was only because we met the other two of us--”

“Yeah, the women who were us,” Sam Campbell said thoughtfully, rubbing a hand against his throat. It looked like he was used to doing that, but Dean could feel Sam shiver next to him in what had to be sympathy. He patted Sam's knee in response.

“Glad that I wasn't my female counterpart, though,” Sam Campbell continued, taking his hand away from the scarred ruin of his throat. “Any more pregnant than that and I was afraid she'd deliver right then and there.”

“Well, not like Deanna was any less pregnant,” Dean Campbell mused, scratching his hair.

Dean turned and gave a look to Sam, who looked like he could fall over at any given time. Dean couldn't blame him. The idea of _any_ incarnation of him being pregnant gave him the creeps.

“Samuel Campbell, I believe you were about to say something about solving this predicament,” Castiel said, crossing his arms.

Briefly, the scarred man looked embarrassed, but he shook it off and rubbed his hands together. “So, you have any more of that dream root?”

“Dream root?” Sam echoed blankly.

Dean agreed with it. “What good's that going to do us?”

“We all keep dreaming slightly different parts, don't we?” Scarred Sam asked. When Sam and Dean both nodded, he held up a finger. “Our female selves pointed out the fact that we're all seeing some different aspect of the dream,” he continued, voice settling into a low monotone. “Obviously, we'll never see it all if we just keep going like we're going.”

“Besides,” scarred Dean added bleakly, “how do we know that this thing with people coming to us, or us going somewhere else, is even going to keep happening?”

“Neither of you two have left your place?” Dean asked. Both men shook their heads.

“We just keep getting visitors,” Sam Campbell said thoughtfully, looking uneasily at Castiel. “It's been screwing with my head seeing all those different versions of myself.”

Both Sam and Dean snorted, but they didn't bother saying anything. Dean didn't think they _could_ say anything to counter that.

“So, we get the dream root, then what?” Dean asked, to end the weird silence.

“The connection between worlds would allow for an unusual connection between your selves,” Castiel said, startling Dean a bit. He had almost forgotten the angel was there. “The DNA connections implicit in each set of siblings would allow you all to walk in each other's dreams.”

“That'd be a great way to get the complete picture,” Sam said enthusiastically. “But it'd still work? We're not identical twins of each other, after all.”

“It should,” Sam Campbell said thoughtfully. “Genetic similarity in each dose of the dream root tea should allow us all access to each other, particularly since we've touched at least one iteration of ourselves during this whole situation--”

“--and all we'd have to do is put our hands in the water,” Dean finished, getting where his sorta-brother was saying. “Okay, we can do that, I guess. We'd have to coordinate it too.”

“I believe my counterparts and I can arrange such an action,” Castiel said, folding his arms across his chest.

Dean spread his arms in the universal bring-it-on sign, and caught his double doing the same thing. Dean lowered his arms as fast as he could, but he couldn't prevent the laugh from coming out of his mouth, followed quickly by the other Dean's.

“When do we start?” Sam asked, sounding pained. “I don't know how long it'll be before seeing two of him will start making me go nuts.”

“Brother, you don't know the half of it,” the other Sam grunted.

Dean knew that having an angel around was convenient. Castiel's ability to be anywhere in the blink of an eye was insanely useful, even if he hated the constipation that always came after Cas had transported _him_ somewhere. The angel's fighting abilities were considerable and frightening. The first time Dean had ever seen Cas fight, he'd done his damnedest to take mental notes while dealing out pain of his own. After studying how Cas fought, even if he couldn't always imitate the sheer strength and ability of an vessel-clad angel, fights with baddies always went a lot faster.

There was something to be said for making the moves of an eons-old being his own.

However, as used to having Cas around as Dean was, he forgot that it wasn't the case for the Campbell brothers. He saw them watch Cas disappear with dropped jaws and blank eyes. Cas reappearing behind them (because, even though Dean had tried to get him to admit it, Cas seemed to like dicking people around like that) had made them both jump out of their skin and draw weapons as fast as Dean or Sam could, if not faster.

Dean felt a bit of shame in realizing the Campbells _were_ faster, probably because they'd gone without angelic assistance for as long as Sam and Dean had _had_ said aid. Not much of an excuse for getting rusty, but when Dean had an angelic tank on his side, he didn't really need the gun quite as often.

Castiel held a bag full of the dream root. Dean didn't need to see it to know. The gut-churning stench of it was proof enough.

“Guess we don't have to ask if Cas was successful,” Sam grumbled, waving a hand in front of his face.

Dean shook his head, more to get rid of the smell embedding itself into his nose hairs than in real disagreement.

“We're going to have to get horizontal pretty fast,” Dean said, ignoring the smirk Sam Campbell and his own brother shot him. Stupid innuendo. “We're going to fall asleep pretty damn fast after this, and then--”

“--break out the toothbrushes when we wake up,” the other Sam finished. “Got it.”

“Yeah, that shit tastes nasty,” the other Dean sighed. “It's like having a hangover--”

“--without the booze,” Dean finished. “Yeah, we know.”

Sam didn't say anything, but Dean _did_ catch him giving the other Sam a long-suffering look. The expression on the Sam Campbell's face was the exact same.

The next few minutes were filled with preparation. Since this world's Sam and Dean were also camping out, their access to certain resources was limited to what the Impala could carry (though Dean was almost beside himself with joy when he found out they _did_ drive the Impala). As a result, everyone took turns rinsing their hands into a cooking pot the Campbells hadn't yet used in order to get all the DNA off their hands.

Sam and the other Sam were talking quietly to each other about the likelihood of this all working, but Dean kept silent except for a brief look shared with his counterpart. Dean thought it would either work or it wouldn't, but they still had to try, and he could see that his brother-self thought the same thing. He briefly felt a sense of wonder mixed with sadness at the thought that, if they could all figure out how this was happening, he'd never get a chance to spend time with someone who understood him this completely again.

It wasn't even the first time he had thought this, but it _was_ the first time he'd thought it quite as strongly.

Hands rinsed, they built a small fire and heated the DNA-filled water over it, though the other Sam was incredibly insistent that the water _not_ boil, an opinion shared by Dean’s Sam. “Why not?” Dean Campbell asked finally, sounding frustrated.

“You boil it, you'll break the DNA into pieces and we'll be drinking this stinky tea for nothing,” Sam said bluntly.

The other Dean coughed. “Yeah, that's a good reason,” he said, idly poking a bit of wood into the fire. “It's about hot enough anyway.”

As soon as the dream root went into the water, Dean wished for a gas mask because (probably to protect himself from the trauma) he had somehow _forgotten_ how nasty the tea smelled. Not even caring that it made him look like a weakling, he walked away from the fire to get some fresh air. Ten very large steps finally got him breathable air that _didn't_ reek of unwashed feet, skunk, and burned hair.

He turned around and found that, except for Castiel, everyone had decided to follow his (fine) example and take several steps away to better-smelling air. Sam was bent over like he'd just run a marathon, the other Dean was pinching his nose and looking green, and the other Sam had one hand clapped over his mouth and the other over his stomach. Dean decided to turn back around and spare the other Sam the knowledge that somebody might watch him puke.

After a few minutes, Castiel clapped loudly to get attention. “You must partake of this before it gets cold,” he said, sounding so den-motherly that Dean almost laughed. “I am assured that it tastes far worse cold than hot.”

Dean squinted his eyes shut instead of groaning like he wanted, then opened them and looked around the group. Not one person had taken a step forward. Dean hadn't either. Apparently they were a big bunch of babies, and Dean wished he didn't have to do what he was about to do, but someone had to man up.

He took the first step forward, and another, forcing himself toward the rancid pot of grossness that would help them figure this thing out. He was almost on top of the pot and trying not to breathe too much when he finally heard the others moving closer.

Dean raised a hand and opened his mouth to ask for a cup, but Castiel had already dipped out a mug full of the awful stuff and handed it to him. The others took their sweet time getting to the pot full of simmering pond-water, but by the time they arrived, Castiel had their mugs ready as well.

The other Dean, holding his mug with a not-so-subtle grimace, looked around briefly and Castiel sighed. “I have ensured that you are all able to lie down immediately after consuming the beverage,” he said briskly. “You should cease stalling and drink.”

Dean, not wanting to face Castiel's wrath, walked over to the mats he saw laid out (all in a row like little soldiers, a voice in his head muttered), and sat down on the furthest one from the fire. “Get over here, all of you,” he said gruffly. “I don't want to have to smell this shit any longer than I have to, so move it!”

He was then joined by Sam on his immediate left, then the other Sam and the other Dean took the remainders. Dean toasted them with a raised eyebrow, plugged his nose, and chugged as fast as he could, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to taste more of it than absolutely necessary.

Right before he sank into unconsciousness, he tried to gag. It didn't work too well.

_There were so many voices. Dean thought for a minute that he'd go insane._

_Everyone was murmuring through the fire. Voices kept coming at him from different angles. He heard people asking several different questions, and they came from all directions. There were other deep voices talking in syncopation with each other, all meaningless babbles of noise. Whispers and screams surrounded him, some so close that he felt himself flinching, others so far away that he was straining to hear them through the cacophony._

_Dean opened his eyes. Right in front of him was a face. He jerked backward, startled at how close it seemed, but it didn't move to follow him. Despite how close he was to it, and how hard he strained and squinted his eyes (don't need glasses, Sam, now fricking drop it, he remembered saying once), he couldn't make out its features. The fire licked over the face and threw the muddled image into stark relief, and the shadows made it look sinister for the briefest second, before it went even less distinct and vanished. Other detail-less faces popped up at random in the area, and some of the voices got louder with what sounded like shock._

_Even though the fire was everywhere, Dean was cold. Even though he could see it roaring and licking at things and faces and people, the fire was silent._

_“Dean,” he heard Sam say from behind him. “Can you hear it?”_

_The question spread out to all the voices murmuring around him. Suddenly, “can you hear it” was echoing in the space around them, vibrating through his bones (Dean wondered if his dream-body had bones), all with the same inflection that Sam always used. The voices were both male and female, and the question got repeated so much it stopped sounding like words, no one saying it at the same time, all the meaningless questions tumbling over each other into a dull roar._

_Dean wondered if his dream-self could go deaf._

_“Help...”_

_That wasn't one of the weird voices; they weren't normally there. That one voice whispering was always there._

_“Break---barrier--”_

_The unusual others started murmuring. Dean only caught bits and pieces of things._

_“What barrier--”_  
“Break it?”  
“Why?”  
“Who are you?” 

_The question of ‘who’ kept getting repeated. Dean felt his dream-body nodding harder at that question. He had the strangest thought that, if he nodded any harder, he could break his own neck. That'd be a weird way to go._

_“Can't last---longer--hurry....”_

_The whisper-voice sounded frantic and urgent. Dean wondered if he could move his dream-self closer to the source._

_“Where are you?” He called, and heard Sam and others pick up the call, asking the question out of time with all the others, creating the roar the fire never had._

_“Hold---can't---need---summon---once---barrier---never---stop....”_

_The voices were getting louder. It was starting to hurt. It never hurt._

_“Stop...”_

_Dean's dream-vision flickered black. He didn't know he could be blind in dreams._

_“Help!”_

_Everything went dark and silent. His last thought was to wonder if his dream-self could die._


	5. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

_“Once,” the voice whispered, right before everything went black. The last thing Sam saw was a face that should have been clear, but wasn't._

Sam woke with a gasp on familiar dirt and stick-laden ground. He was staring right at a pair of leather wingtips, incongruous in the wilderness. He knew those shoes.

“You have returned,” Castiel's voice murmured from somewhere nearby. “Excellent. Dealing with your doubles was something of a trial.”

Sam made some kind of noise in return, then grimaced in disgust. His mouth tasted like the love-child of a sewer, a skunk, and a landfill. There was one too many parental lineages in there, but the sheer grossness of his mouth didn't leave him much other descriptive choices.

A hand proffered a mug full of water at him. Sam sat up, trying to get the dizziness under control, and reached for the mug with a nod of thanks. The first mouthful he took got swished around in his mouth and spat out. The rest of it went down his very dry throat.

“Thanks,” he croaked. “Dean?”

“Still deeply unconscious,” Castiel responded, nodding toward the other side of the tent. There was Dean, still apparently dead to the world, and reassuringly normal-looking and scar-free. Seeing Dean Campbell (God, _Campbell,_ not Winchester), scarred all over, and then looking up ( _up,_ which hadn't happened since he was a teenager) at a version of himself, throat ruined inside and out, had really thrown him for a loop. Seeing himself as a _woman_ hadn't been nearly as disturbing.

If Sam had never been healed, or brought back from the dead, he might have looked like that. The idea was terrifying.

He coughed a little, then asked quietly, “who did you see?”

The look on Castiel's face looked like consternation. It had to be that. As far as Sam knew, angels couldn't get constipation.

“I encountered two women who were obviously as you two might have been,” Castiel said slowly. “Both were quite tall and had short hair--”

Sam took that to mean that Cas had met a different set of sisters than the ones he and Dean had met.

“And Deanna, as was her name, was pregnant,” Castiel said. “I advised her the child was strong and healthy, and would also like her to consume more strawberries.”

Sam snorted quietly.

“Interestingly, Samantha, as was her name, had a similar reaction after I said this,” Castiel noted, settling into a crouch. Sam thought it made him look somewhat less ridiculous than attempting to stand in the tent.

“After those two were forced to depart, I encountered another female version of Dean and a male you,” Castiel continued, putting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “The female Dean, as she told me to call her, had brown eyes, as did your counterpart. Your counterpart was considerably more slender than you. Neither immediately understood that I was not a 'monster,' and I was threatened with guns.”

“What did you do?” Sam asked, despite himself.

“Disarmed them, then submitted to their tests,” Castiel said. “It would not do to allow them out of this universe substantially injured, had one of their weapons been able to damage me.”

Sam nodded. It only stood to reason that not every universe had angels walking among humans, even if it disturbed him on some level. He _knew_ it had disturbed Dean to find out that their last stop featured a universe that didn't even know angels _existed._ Even if Dean hadn't said anything, it was still painfully obvious. It made Sam leery too, especially when he thought of the horrific scarring on Sam Campbell's throat.

If Sam had never met Castiel, and one too many lucky throat-hits had gone through without the angel's ability to heal the damage, the likelihood of ending up exactly like Sam Campbell would have been much higher. It drove home the point that the only reason Sam and Dean were even alive right now was because of angelic interference.

Sam figured it also told him that they were perfectly capable of living without an angelic host's machinations, but it was probably too late for that now.

“They tried the dream root, right?” Sam asked urgently. “They got answers?”

“This I do not know,” Castiel said, staring down at his interlaced fingers. “They disappeared while still under the effects of the dream root. You appeared shortly after they were taken back to their own universe.”

“Taken?” A grunt came from Dean, who had apparently finally decided to rejoin the land of the living. Sam looked at Dean, but Castiel, who was faster on the draw than Sam, was already offering Dean another cup of water. Dean shakily sat up and drank, face grimacing in disgust while he did it, but didn't stop until he'd completely drained it.

“Indeed,” Castiel said once Dean's cup was empty. “My own counterparts contacted and assured me that their charges were back within their normal universes once the dream root had taken effect.”

Sam blinked. “Once,” he muttered.

“What,” Dean said blankly, then he nodded. “Yeah, that's what the dream said.”

“Of what do you speak?” Castiel asked politely.

“The dream,” Sam said. “The dream said 'once.' It might have meant 'take you back once more.'”

Castiel looked doubtful, even as he finally sank into a sitting position after a far longer time than most human could have managed. Sam may have stopped trying to get the angel to conform to human endurance standards, but it didn't prevent him from noticing when the angel carelessly exceeded them. “That appears to be a great deal of extrapolation from exceedingly little information,” he stated flatly. “Are you sure of being correct?”

“It's a hell of a lot more than we had before, Cas,” Dean said tiredly, shielding his eyes with his free hand. “Whoever's sending these dreams isn't exactly known for his chattiness.”

Sam frowned. “We don't quite know that for sure, do we?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it before nodding. “True,” he said. “Cas, did they give you a list of what they saw in the dreams? We were gathering what we had before we took the dream root.”

Castiel nodded and reached inside his ever-present trench-coat. He extracted a couple of crumpled notebook sheets that had obviously been ripped out without regard for the perforations and handed them to Sam.

Sam took them, grabbed the notebook and pencil Dean held out to him without comment, then jotted down what he'd heard in the dream before handing it back to Dean. There was always the possibility that Dean had heard something Sam hadn't, and he didn't want to pass up the opportunity to possibly learn something new about this situation.

While Dean scribbled, Sam thought. There had to be commonalities beyond the obvious. _Obviously,_ all the people involved were the Sams and Deans (and Castiels, but Sam wasn't counting him as crucial) of all the universes. _Obviously,_ they weren't the only ones seeing other siblings with their names, and obviously, they were _all_ having the same dream, or close enough.

There was more. There _had_ to be more. Too many coincidences in a row made Sam nervous, because he wasn't the kind of person who even put much stock in the _idea_ of coincidence. Too many things in his and Dean's life had been arranged for him to even be comfortable with things happening just for the hell of it.

Then it hit him, and Sam could have cheerfully hit _himself._ How he could have missed something so blindingly obvious (that word again) was beyond him, but he was glad he'd realized it now.

“We're all in Arizona,” Sam said aloud, and saw Castiel and Dean's heads turn once again toward him. Sam had noticed before that they always seemed to look at each other once nothing else had their attention, but he shook that strange assessment aside. It was probably just because of the only quality sleep he'd gotten being due to getting knocked unconscious.

“We are, aren't we?” Sam asked Castiel, trying not to sound triumphant. “Not the same places, necessarily, but every single iteration of us is in this one state?”

Castiel's head tilted in the angel-radio stance he and Dean had gotten to see in the past few days, but the sudden swaying was something new to Sam. When the Castiel in the female Winchester universe had commented that communicating between universes was difficult, he must not have been kidding. Still, he had shown a lot less strain than their Castiel was currently demonstrating. Maybe it was just a cumulative effect.

Finally, Castiel lowered his head and took several deep breaths. “Every single universe, and their versions of you, are indeed in Arizona. Quite the rarity,” he said.

“Why's that?” Dean asked roughly, tapping the cup with a finger. “If we're all pretty similar, wouldn't we all be doing similar things?”

“Not necessarily,” Castiel replied, running a hand through his hair. Sam tried not to grin at the way it did absolutely _nothing_ to ruin the angel's coiffure. “The grand scale of possibility that exists usually keeps such an event from happening. The consequences can be...unforeseen, for lack of a better word. The energies unleashed by so many similar people in such a place, even across all the veils that separate the universes, is unknown.”

“So what you're saying is we've got a ton of untapped energy, for no apparent reason?” Sam asked, trying to put it into terms he could understand. He rubbed his eyes and sighed; he hadn't gotten enough sleep these past few...days? It felt like _months._

“Yes, and it concerns me,” Castiel said with a frown. “I am unsure of what could have caused such a large-scale gathering of your alternate counterparts.”

“We _did_ have a case pull us here,” Dean pointed out. 

Castiel looked taken aback, and even Sam was surprised. He hadn't even _thought_ of the case since the biker-Dean had appeared in front of him. God, where the hell were his priorities?

Castiel replied slowly, almost like he was fact-checking himself as he spoke. “You are correct. No other disappearances have occurred.”

“The entire _case_ was a lure?” Sam asked incredulously. “So that means that every single other iteration of us--”

“--got lured here with the intention of gathering all this possible energy together in one space,” Dean finished for him. “But why Arizona? What's so special about this place?”

For a while, everyone was silent as they thought. Sam hadn't been in Arizona for years, and there were still massive unexplored regions of it. Dean had probably been through here more often than not, but Dean hated the heat even more than he hated the cold, so Dean probably didn't know everything there was to know about this place either. It was definitely their first visit to Tombstone.

The female Winchesters had been in Phoenix. The brothers Campbell were in Show Low. The biker-Dean had been in Tucson. None of those places were ringing a bell when it came to supernatural knowledge he should know.

Then Dean clapped his hands together once, calling for attention. “I know exactly what we're supposed to do,” he said. “Rather, I know where we're supposed to _go._ ”

“Where?” Sam bit out, and saw Castiel nod in the corner of his eye.

“Phoenix,” Dean said, standing up shakily. “We have to go to Phoenix. I'll explain on the way.”

Sam didn't know what had possessed Dean (pun most certainly _not_ intended), but he was driving like a madman, even given Arizona's higher speed limit.

After about ten minutes of Dean trying to make the Impala leap forward like its namesake, Sam had had enough. Packing up the campsite and such was done in the fastest twenty minutes he could remember having, and he could hear something rattling in the backseat every time Dean changed lanes. God, Dean wasn’t even using his _turn signal._

“What the hell's in Phoenix?” Sam finally demanded.

Dean was silent for a little bit, but then he whistled tunelessly through his teeth. It was weird. Dean normally whistled tunes instead of trying to sound like a teakettle boiling over.

“Remember Calvary?” Dean finally asked, tension in his voice and the set of his shoulders.

Sam winced. “Yes,” he said. “But what does that have to do with---oh.” Suddenly, Sam _got_ it.

“Seriously?” Sam asked, shocked.

“Seriously,” Dean answered. “I would never have figured it out if I hadn't gotten lost about ten different times just trying to get to the Superstition Freeway.”

Sam blinked hard, feeling disturbed about the fact that someone in Arizona had actually been _weird_ enough to name something “Superstition,” but tried to focus on what Dean was saying. “So you're telling me there's actually a devil's trap in _Phoenix,_ of all places?”

Dean chuckled lowly. “I don't think it was done on purpose in quite the same way as Calvary, but yes,” he replied. “I mapped them out. Apparently, whoever _did_ do it has a fondness for steakhouses. Pretty good cover, if it was on purpose.”

“Steakhouses,” Sam echoed dully. “Of course. What else would it be?”

“Dunno, but at least we can get something to eat while we're there,” was the not-unexpected answer from the driver's side. “I think the last honest meal we had was breakfast with the chicks who were us.”

Sam snorted at the lack of political correctness in what Dean had said, but didn't bother replying. He was too busy thinking about what might happen.

Dreams telling them to summon someone sounded straight out of some kind of science fiction show, in Sam's head. It wasn't as though Sam himself hadn't had prophetic dreams before, but unless Dean was slipping demon blood into his beer at night, he wasn't getting any from there.

Sam repressed a shudder of longing that still sometimes went through him, even after all these years of being dry, and forced himself to focus. It was hard, knowing that he'd had _maybe_ four hours of quality sleep in two days, and that was only because the Impala kept him safe from true nightmares in the way she always had.

Sam carefully patted her armrest after making sure that Dean couldn't see him.

Sam leaned his head back against the bench seat and tried to clear his head. He had been thinking about his former prophetic dreams, which hadn't come back since he'd stopped drinking the blood. He hadn't had one in years, but what was _Dean's_ excuse? Dean hadn't been fed demon blood as a baby. Dean had never had a precognitive dream in his life, unless Dean was _seriously_ holding out on him, which Sam was pretty sure he wasn't.

Much as he might be willing to discount what he had dreamed, Sam knew he couldn't throw away the fact that Dean was having the same dreams.

Whatever they had been seeing in their sleep had to be true, if all of the Sams and Deans of other universes ( _God,_ Sam didn't think he was ever going to wrap his mind fully around that, or how many universes there could possible even _be_ ) were having the same dream. He'd seen it for himself under the influence of the dream root. A shared dream of that magnitude was crazy, unrealistic, and impossible in every sense of the word, and it was _true._ Much as he wanted to, Sam couldn't lie to himself about this.

Knowing that they (and probably every single other set of siblings bearing the names Winchester or Campbell) were on their way to a devil's trap, of all things, was the most reassuring thing Sam had heard lately. At least whatever they'd be summoning wouldn't be a damn demon. Sam had had enough of those bastards to last him the rest of his life.

Castiel had seemed really concerned about the universes imploding, or exploding, or collapsing; Sam couldn't quite remember which word had been used. While Sam and Dean had been packing the car, they had gotten a steady lecture from the angel about the importance of doing the summoning as soon as possible, because there was every possibility that the holes being torn in the fabric between universes could cause a catastrophe that would make the Apocalypse look like a gentle soaking rain.

Sam shook his head a little at the memory. As if being taken out of existence was their biggest problem right now. At least _that_ had the possibility of being quick. Getting killed slowly through sleep deprivation seemed like the lesser of two evils.

“Okay, so whoever bothers to start sending all these dreams out tries to concentrate all of us, every you and every me in existence, into this one general area,” Sam said absently to Dean, whose foot was steadily pushing the car toward the higher end of the 90 mile-per-hour zone. “Castiel basically said that this much potential energy in one spot hasn't been possible since everything came into existence.”

“Whoever the hell we're summoning is probably one powerful son-of-a-bitch,” Dean replied, putting the left-blinker on and passing in one smooth motion. The sedate-looking minivan in the right lane was quickly left in the dust. Dean didn't bother getting back into the right lane after that.

“I mean, if that much energy is needed in one place to get this thing free, it's probably trapped good,” Dean continued, glancing over at Sam and the passenger-side mirror.

“Good point,” Sam said, and it was. It had occurred to him that there had to be a reason for that much energy to gather in one place, but not exactly _why._ Dean had probably nailed it on the head.

“I hate that we don't have time to even do research about all of this,” Sam grumbled. “Not that I'm awake enough to do any major reading, but come on!”

“You heard Cas,” Dean said tightly, his right hand making a random gesture in the air. “Universe exploding doesn't sound like too much fun.”

“Neither does rushing around like chickens with their heads cut off,” Sam retorted. “How much longer?”

“Supposed to take about three hours,” Dean said. “The way I'm going? Maybe about two.”

“Don't run over any cops,” Sam cautioned. “We had enough trouble evading them the _last_ time we were in a hurry.”

Dean snorted. “Sam, have you _seen_ these roads?” His right hand, which still hadn't made its way back to the steering wheel, made a sweeping motion to either side of the highway. The only things to see were cacti, small bushes, and sand.

Sam reluctantly acknowledged that Dean was probably right about the inability of cops to set speed-traps, but he also didn't feel like getting into another high-speed chase. Cop cars were _modified_ to be speedy; the Impala wasn't, mostly due to Dean's insistence on keeping her parts strictly stock.

One of these days, Sam was going to convince Dean that installing some surprises into their car that weren't street-legal was a good idea instead of a bad one, but this was definitely not that time.

Instead, Sam reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small notepad and a tiny golf-pencil. The lead was thankfully sharp enough to write with, so Sam busily started jotting down the words to the most basic Latin summoning spell he knew. Once they were down, Sam wrote down the modifications used to summon a demon (not necessary since no demon could enter that area, but still useful), the incantations to summon an angel, and the words needed to call up a (friendly) ghost.

Dean was able to keep the car traveling at a smooth enough keel to allow for Sam to write somewhat legibly, which he thanked Dean for at one point. Dean just waved him off and asked for one of the burritos they'd had saved from Texas just---God, such a short time ago--over a day ago. Sam had thought this before, but it seriously felt like longer.

Sam took one of the burritos for himself and ate with his left hand while he wrote with his right. He finished the burrito a lot sooner than he finished writing down the spell components he needed, so he crumpled the wrapper and put it down next to him for safekeeping. Dean's own burrito wrapper joined it a little while later.

Sam had to be careful, and luckily he knew he'd be able to consult Castiel on the final spell before either of them even started saying it. Castiel had said something about the spell having to be performed nearly simultaneously for it to work across all the universes, and he'd need to be there to coordinate the effort; for now, he was busy gathering the ingredients they'd need for the ritual.

God. They were going to do a ritual to summon some _thing_ in the parking lot of a steakhouse in a devil's trap in Phoenix, Arizona. Sam thought that this _had_ to be the moment his life went seriously off the rails.

Sam had thought about suggesting that they ask Castiel to just zap them there, but the car would have had to be teleported as well, and inanimate objects, for whatever reason, seemed to drain Cas more than living material. Sam made a note to ask about that later, provided they didn't summon some kind of world-destroying big-bad that could get past the safeguards he was writing into the spell, and focused on conjugating his Latin correctly. Grammar was important.

Sam was feeling vaguely nauseated by the time he looked up, and to his surprise, signs for Phoenix were up by the side of the road. He must have been more focused than he had realized on the spell.

The rest of the trip was a blur. Sam trusted that Dean knew where to go, because Sam sure as hell didn't. He told Dean at some point that he had the spell ready, and Dean grunted. It was as good an acknowledgement as he was going to get.

The sun was down by the time Dean finally pulled into the steakhouse’s parking lot, and Sam figured it was for the best. Summoning anything usually involved fire of some kind, and the fewer people were around to see what was going on, the less likely it was that cops would be trying to find them.

Sam didn't imagine that black muscle cars (more like black cars in general, from what Sam had seen from the road) with Kansas plates were common around here, so it was best to be inconspicuous.

Glancing at his watch, Sam winced when he realized that it was somehow past eleven o'clock at night. Time flew when he was busy being knocked unconscious.

The parking lot of the steakhouse was empty of other cars, but both Sam and Dean still waited a moment before they got out of the car, just to be on the safe side. There was a small amount of traffic on the road around them, but by mutual agreement, they went to the back part of the lot, which was the furthest away from the road. Whatever they were going to do, it had the potential to be really flashy, so after surveying things, Dean brought the car nearby in order to have a quick getaway ready.

A soft breeze touched Sam's cheek, and he smiled a bit before realizing that the oddly groomed palm trees around them hadn't so much as twitched since they'd arrived.

“I have the ingredients you require,” Castiel said, and Sam kept himself from screaming and leaping out of his skin just in time. He turned, and the angel held out a sack full of stuff to him. In return, Sam gave him the spell he'd hastily worked out on the way over and searched the contents of the bag.

He found two bronze bowls (one smaller, one a great deal larger), a small silver knife, a bottle of virgin olive oil (Sam scoured his mind and realized that was part of the spell to summon a friendly ghost; it prevented ill will from approaching), a small stoppered bottle full of what looked like volcanic ash (representing the earth, if Sam remembered right), a vial of dead man's blood (Sam briefly wondered what part of the ritual would need that, before realizing that Cas had probably grabbed it for self-defense), and the feathers of a dove. The very bottom of the bag held a small bundle of seasoned firewood, a soft grey cloth, and a stick of incense. Sam pulled everything out, laid the cloth on the ground, put the wood into the larger bronze bowl, and smelled the incense. It was lavender.

While Sam had been busy, Dean had been carefully casing the area to make sure that no one was going to stop the ceremony, such as it was. No one knew what was going to happen, but having it interrupted probably didn't bear thinking about.

Castiel finally nodded and handed Sam's scribbled spell back to him. “It will do nicely, Sam,” he intoned. “The spell should be performed at midnight. That will give everyone time to get into place, and then you can begin.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks, Cas,” he said, and checked the time. Less than five minutes before they had to start.

Dean walked over and poured the olive oil into the smaller bowl. He handed the bowl to Sam and lit the incense with his lighter, and the scent of incense wafted into the air. Everything suddenly smelled clearer; the chemical tang of gasoline mixed with the arid purity of the desert sand and the sweet smell of honeysuckle.

Something was going to happen. Sam _felt_ it.

Castiel's head tipped back.

Dean took the ashes, uncorked the bottle, and moved to the other side of the fire, ready to throw them into the fire at Sam's direction.

Whispers of things mortals shouldn't hear brushed against Sam's ears, just at the higher and lower ends of his hearing range. He resisted the urge to tap his head, and saw Dean hunching his shoulders uncomfortably.

“ _Now,_ ” Cas whispered, and the strain in his voice had never been more obvious.

Sam lit the firewood with the incense, and the dry wood caught fire immediately. He put the incense into the fire and the clarity of the air around them increased. The fire smelled like pine and apples, and the lavender scent should have seemed out of place, but wasn't.

Sam began intoning the Latin words he'd painstakingly written out, holding the knife ceremoniously and gesturing to emphasize certain words. There hadn't been time to practice, but Sam didn't need it. He could probably talk in Latin in his sleep. Cas had okayed the incantation. It had to work. It just _had_ to work.

At the part where Sam declared that nothing of evil intent should come to their summons, he slowly poured the olive oil over the fire. It should have gone out, but instead it roared up out of the bowl, almost touching Sam's arm. He felt the heat of it brush his skin, but it didn't burn him.

The olive oil smelled like salt, wet earth, and sweetness as it burned. The fire had a faint greenish tinge to it, like the olives had stained the orange somehow.

On the other side of the fire, quiet enough to barely hear, Dean was saying the complement of the spell, beseeching whoever sought them in their dreams to come forth and walk on the earth. Dean then threw the ashes into the fire at the same time Sam threw in the dove feathers, and it blazed up once again, though the color didn't change.

The light around them, however, did.

Sam dimly heard Castiel's knees hit the ground hard enough to bruise, but couldn't spare the energy to wince for him, because _something was coming._ Unlike all of their other summoning spells, who-or-whatever they had called wasn't going to sneak up on them unaware, but appear directly in front of them.

Sam shielded his eyes just after he saw Dean do the same, but even behind the protective shield of his arm and closed eyelids, the light kept increasing. He heard screams for a moment, screams that sounded hauntingly familiar, and the tears of pain leaking from his eyes were joined by tears of sympathy and terror.

It went on forever. It went away as quickly as it came up.

Shivering in the sudden cold, Sam finally dropped his arm and opened his eyes. The fire had gone out. Except for the starlight, it was dark.

There was a figure standing to the left of the spread cloth and bronze bowl. He was barely visible, but Sam recognized enough of the figure to catch his breath.

“I realize you have no reason to believe what I will say,” the man said tiredly. “However, simply listen, as it is taking the remainder of my energies to even remain upright.” The voice had a strange stereo quality to it, as if two people were saying the words at the same time. Sam wondered at it in the small part of his mind that wasn’t busy gibbering with shock.

It was Michael. Michael in Adam’s body. Michael in Adam’s body _and out of the cage._

“Torturing Adam for our mistakes should never have been allowed to happen,” Michael continued, but the stereo effect had stopped. Sam briefly wondered if he had imagined it. “After I stopped allowing Adam to suffer needlessly for our mistakes, we began planning. Time passes more slowly in Hell, so we honed our partnership and waited for such an opportunity.” Michael swayed on his feet, but appeared to stay on his feet through sheer determination. 

“Adam came up with the plan,” he continued, voice growing weaker. “Tearing the holes through the universes and transplanting people, even for the few seconds necessary for the people we used to lure you…weakened us horribly. The dreams taxed us further...but there was no choice. Except for my brother, Lucifer, angels trapped in Hell cannot be freed in one domain unless they are freed in _all_ domains.”

That explained the universe-holes.

“I cannot stay longer without endangering Adam’s life,” Michael concluded, starting to turn grey. “Please, care for him. I have healed him of his injuries, but he will need you.”

“Leave, then,” Dean said shortly, and Sam realized belatedly that the angel had sort of apologized for being a dick. Even considering that, Dean apparently didn’t want the angel around any more than Sam did.

Michael nodded, and something seemed to separate from the figure standing there, leaving only a swaying man and gasping, desperate sounding breaths.

The fire in the bowl lit itself again, and Sam didn't hesitate to fling himself at Adam, catching him before he lost his footing. Dean was only a heartbeat behind him. Together, they caught the younger man and eased him to the concrete before he could hurt himself.

Blue eyes blinked up at Sam and Dean, and the man grabbed both of them and started weeping hysterically, like he'd never stop crying again.

Instinctually, Sam started rocking back and forth gently, and felt Dean follow his lead. They started talking together in low, soothing voices, trying to comfort the shell-shocked man they held between them.

Even though Sam was murmuring comforting nothings into their brother’'s ear, it was Dean's words he listened to, because they represented everything important in that moment.

“It's okay, Adam,” Dean whispered, tears pouring down his face. “You're home now, brother. You're safe now. You're _safe._ ”

Sam nodded, crying himself. “He's right,” he said, trying not to sob. “We've got you, Adam. _We've got you._ ”

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to weesta for the wonderful art, and wendy and the highwaywoman for running the SPN-J2 Big Bang.


End file.
